PRGSH 

I      Xlli     L-n—    ^^   <^ 


N-Rl 


i^di 


®i|8  §,  ^,  1im  pkarg 


QH6I 


irts. 


i' 


If 

■a 


Date  Due 

MrS:2C_ 

— f^mi, 

1 

£l9b'4 

.  .                      1 

1 

k  ■■D  "i 

4CV*  A 

la  r/ivZS 

m 

WIAt  ii 

__   i 

y  i9ob 

■ 

• 

1 
1 

^flotifii  i)p  3fo^it  ^urrotislifi. 


WORKS.  New  Riverside  Edition.  With  several 
Portraits  of  Burroughs,  and  engraved  Title-pages. 
Printed  from  entirely  new  plates.  lo  vols.  12010, 
cloth,  gilt  top,  the  set,  $15.00,  net  ;  uncut,  paper 
labels,  $15.00,  net;  half  calf,  gilt  top,  $30.00,  net. 

RiVERBV. 

Wake-Robin. 

Winter  Sunshine. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honky. 

Fresh  Fields. 

Indoor  Studies. 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers. 

Pepacton,  and  Other  Sketches. 

Signs  and  Seasons. 

Whitman  :  A  Study. 

The  Same.     Each  volume,  i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.25;  the 
set,  10  vols.,  uniform,  $12.50;  half  calf,  $22.50. 

WAKE-ROBIN.      Riverside  Aldine  Series.     i6mo, 

$1.00. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
Boston  and  New  York. 


FRESH  FIELDS 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


BOSTON   AND    NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

(2Et)e  fiitoetj^ibe  T^ns^,  Cambridge 

1897 


Copyright,  1884,  1895, 
By  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  11.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

I.  Nature  in  England 1 

II.  English  Woods  :  A  Contrast    ....  35 

III.  In  Carlyle's  Country 45 

IV.  A  Hunt  for  the  Nightingale  ....  77 
V.  English  and  American  Song-Birds    .        .        .  113 

VI.  Impressions  of  some  English  Birds        .        .  131 

VII.  In  Wordsworth's  Country 147 

VIII.   A  Glance  at  British  Wild  Flowers     .        .  159 

IX.   British  Fertility 175 

X.  A  Sunday  in  Cheyne  Row 199 

XI.  At  Sea 267 

Index 277 


-^\^v 


FRESH  FIELDS 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND 


THE  first  whiff  we  got  of  transatlantic  nature 
was  the  peaty  breath  of  the  peasant  chimneys 
of  Ireland  while  we  were  yet  many  miles  at  sea. 
What  a  homelike,  fireside  smell  it  was !  it  seemed 
to  make  something  long  forgotten  stir  within  one. 
One  recognizes  it  as  a  characteristic  Old  \Yorld 
odor,  it  savors  so  of  the  soil  and  of  a  ripe  and  mel- 
low antiquity.  I  know  no  other  fuel  that  yields  so 
agreeable  a  perfume  as  peat.  Unless  the  Irishman 
in  one  has  dwindled  to  a  very  small  fraction,  he 
will  be  pretty  sure  to  dilate  his  nostrils  and  feel 
some  dim  awakening  of  memory  on  catching  the 
scent  of  this  ancestral  fuel.  The  fat,  unctuous 
peat,  —  the  pith  and  marrow  of  ages  of  vegetable 
growth,  —  how  typical  it  is  of  much  that  lies  there 
before  us  in  the  elder  world ;  of  the  slow  ripenings 
and  accumulations,  of  extinct  life  and  forms,  decayed 
civilizations,  of  ten  thousand  growths  and  achieve- 


2  FRESH    FIELDS 

ments  of  the  hand  and  soul  of  man,  now  reduced 
to  their  last  modicum  of  fertilizing  mould! 

With  the  breath  of  the  chimney  there  came  pres- 
ently the  chimney  swallow,  and  dropped  much  fa- 
tigued upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  It  was  a 
still  more  welcome  and  suggestive  token,  —  the  bird 
of  Virgil  and  of  Theocritus,  acquainted  with  every 
cottage  roof  and  chimney  in  Europe,  and  with  the 
ruined  abbeys  and  castle  walls.  Except  its  lighter- 
colored  breast,  it  seemed  identical  with  our  barn 
swallow;  its  little  black  cap  appeared  pulled  down 
over  its  eyes  in  the  same  manner,  and  its  glossy 
steel-blue  coat,  its  forked  tail,  its  infantile  feet,  and 
its  cheerful  twitter  were  the  same.  But  its  habits 
are  different;  for  in  Europe  this  swallow  builds  in 
chimneys,  and  the  bird  that  answers  to  our  chimney 
swallow,  or  swift,  builds  in  crevices  in  barns  and 
houses. 

We  did  not  suspect  we  had  taken  aboard  our 
pilot  in  the  little  swallow,  yet  so  it  proved:  this 
light  navigator  always  hails  from  the  port  of  bright, 
warm  skies;  and  the  next  morning  we  found  our- 
selves sailing  between  shores  basking  in  full  sum- 
mer sunshine.  Those  who,  after  ten  days  of  sor- 
rowing and  fasting  in  the  desert  of  the  ocean,  have 
sailed  up  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  and  thence  up  the 
Clyde  to  Glasgow,  on  the  morning  of  a  perfect  mid- 
May  day,  the  sky  all  sunshine,  the  earth  all  ver- 
dure, know  what  this  experience  is;  and  only  those 
can  know  it.  It  takes  a  good  many  foul  days  in 
Scotland  to  breed  one  fair  one;  but  when  the  fair 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND  3 

day  does  come,  it  is  worth  the  price  paid  fur  it. 
The  soul  and  sentiment  of  all  fair  weather  is  in  it; 
it  is  the  flowering  of  the  meteorological  influences, 
the  rose  on  this  thorn  of  rain  and  mist.  These  fair 
days,  I  was  told,  may  be  quite  confidently  looked 
for  in  May;  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  experience 
a  series  of  them,  and  the  day  we  entered  port  was 
such  a  one  as  you  would  select  from  a  hundred. 

The  traveler  is  in  a  mood  to  be  pleased  after 
clearing  the  Atlantic  gulf;  the  eye  in  its  exuberance 
is  full  of  caresses  and  flattery,  and  the  deck  of  a 
steamer  is  a  rare  vantage-ground  on  any  occasion 
of  sight-seeing;  it  afl"ords  just  the  isolation  and 
elevation  needed.  Yet  fully  discounting  these  fa- 
vorable conditions,  the  fact  remains  that  Scotch  sun- 
shine is  bewitching,  and  that  the  scenery  of  the 
Clyde  is  unequaled  by  any  other  approach  to  Eu- 
rope. It  is  Europe,  abridged  and  assorted  and 
passed  before  you  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours,  —  the 
highlands  and  lochs  and  castle-crowned  crags  on 
the  one  hand;  and  the  lowlands,  with  their  parks 
and  farms,  their  manor  halls  and  matchless  verdure, 
on  the  other.  The  eye  is  conservative,  and  loves  a 
look  of  permanence  and  order,  of  peace  and  content- 
ment; and  these  Scotch  shores,  with  their  stone 
houses,  compact  masonry,  clean  fields,  grazing  herds, 
ivied  walls,  massive  foliage,  perfect  roads,  verdant 
mountains,  etc.,  fill  all  the  conditions.  We  pause 
an  hour  in  front  of  Greenock,  and  then,  on  the 
crest  of  the  tide,  make  our  way  slowly  upward. 
The  landscape  closes  around  us.      We  can  almost 


4  FRESH   FIELDS 

hear   the   cattle   ripping  off   the  lush  grass  in  the 
fields.      One  feels  as  if  he  could  eat  grass  himself. 
It  is  pastoral  paradise.      We  can  see  the  daisies  and 
buttercups ;  and  from  above  a  meadow  on  the  right 
a  part  of  the  song  of  a  skylark  reaches  my  ear.      In- 
deed, not  a  little  of  the  charm  and  novelty  of  this 
part  of  the  voyage  was  the  impression  it  made  as 
of  going  afield  in  an  ocean  steamer.      We  had  sud- 
denly passed  from  a  wilderness  of  waters  into  a  ver- 
durous, sunlit  landscape,  where  scarcely  any  water 
was    visible.      The    Clyde,    soon    after    you     leave 
Greenock,   becomes  little  more  than  a  large,    deep 
canal,   inclosed   between   meadow  banks,    and  from 
the  deck  of  the  great  steamer  only  the  most  charm- 
ing rural  sights  and  sounds  greet  you.      You  are  at 
sea  amid   verdant   parks   and   fields   of   clover   and 
grain.      You    behold    farm     occupations  —  sowing, 
planting,    plowing  —  as    from    the    middle    of    the 
Atlantic.      Playful  heifers  and  skipping  lambs  take 
the  place  of  the  leaping  dolphins  and  the  basking 
swordfish.      The  ship  steers  her  way  amid  turnip- 
fields  and  broad  acres  of  newly   planted   potatoes. 
You  are  not  surprised  that  she  needs  piloting.      A 
little  tug  with  a  rope  at  her  bow  pulls  her  first  this 
way  and  then  that,  while  one  at  her  stern  nudges 
her  right  flank  and  then  her  left.      Presently  we 
come  to  the  ship-building  yards  of  the  Clyde,  where 
rural,    pastoral   scenes   are   strangely   mingled  with 
those  of  quite  another  sort.      "First  a  cow  and  then 
an   iron   ship,"   as   one   of   the   voyagers  observed. 
Here  a  pasture  or  a  meadow,  or  a  field  of  wheat  or 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND  5 

oats,  and  close  beside  it,  without  an  inch  of  waste 
or  neutral  ground  between,  rise  the  skeletons  of 
innumerable  ships,  like  a  'forest  of  slender  growths 
of  iron,  with  the  workmen  hammering  amid  it  like 
so  many  noisy  woodpeckers.  It  is  doubtful  if  such 
a  scene  can  be  witnessed  anywhere  else  in  the  world, 
—  an  enormous  mechanical,  commercial,  and  archi- 
tectural interest,  alternating  with  the  quiet  and 
simplicity  of  inland  farms  and  home  occupations. 
You  could  leap  from  the  deck  of  a  half-finished 
ocean  steamer  into  a  field  of  waving  wheat  or  AVin- 
chester  beans.  These  vast  shipyards  appear  to  be 
set  down  here  upon  the  banks  of  the  Clyde  without 
any  interference  with  the  natural  surroundings  of 
the  place. 

Of  the  factories  and  foundries  that  put  this  iron 
in  shape  you  get  no  hint;  here  the  ships  rise  as  if 
they  sprouted  from  the  soil,  without  waste  or  litter, 
but  with  an  incessant  din.  They  stand  as  thickly 
as  a  row  of  cattle  in  stanchions,  almost  touching 
each  other,  and  in  all  stages  of  development.  Now 
and  then  a  stall  will  be  vacant,  the  ship  having  just 
been  launched,  and  others  will  be  standing  with 
flags  flying  and  timbers  greased  or  soaped,  ready  to 
take  to  the  water  at  the  word.  Two  such,  both 
large  ocean  steamers,  waited  for  us  to  pass.  We 
looked  back,  saw  the  last  block  or  wedge  knocked 
away  from  one  of  them,  and  the  monster  ship  saun- 
tered down  to  the  water  and  glided  out  into  the 
current  in  the  most  gentle,  nonchalant  way  imagin- 
able.     I  wondered   at   her   slow  pace,   and  at  the 


6  FRESH   FIELDS 

grace  and  composure  with  which  she  took  to  the 
water;  the  j)roblem  nicely  studied  and  solved,  — 
just  jDower  enough,  and  not  an  ounce  to  sj^are. 
The  vessels  are  launched  diagonally  up  or  down 
stream,  on  account  of  the  narrowness  of  the  chan- 
nel. But  to  see  such  a  brood  of  ships,  the  largest 
in  the  world,  hatched  upon  the  banks  of  such  a 
placid  little  river,  amid  such  quiet  country  scenes, 
is  a  novel  experience.  But  this  is  Britain,  —  a  little 
island,  with  little  lakes,  little  rivers,  quiet,  bosky 
fields,  but  mighty  interests  and  power  that  reach 
round  the  world.  I  was  conscious  that  the  same 
scene  at  home  would  have  been  less  pleasing.  It 
would  not  have  been  so  compact  and  tidy.  There 
would  not  have  been  a  garden  of  ships  and  a  garden 
of  turnips  side  by  side;  haymakers  and  shipbuild- 
ers in  adjoining  fields;  milch-cows  and  iron  steamers 
seeking  the  water  within  sight  of  each  other.  We 
leave  wider  margins  and  ragged  edges  in  this  coun- 
try, and  both  man  and  nature  sprawl  about  at 
greater  lengths  than  in  the  Old  World. 

For  the  rest  I  was  perhaps  least  prepared  for  the 
utter  tranquillity,  and  shall  I  say  domesticity,  of 
the  mountains.  At  a  distance  they  appear  to  be 
covered  with  a  tender  green  mould  that  one  could 
brush  away  with  his  hand.  On  nearer  approach  it 
is  seen  to  be  grass.  They  look  nearly  as  rural  and 
pastoral  as  the  fields.  Groat  Fell  is  steejD  and  stony, 
but  even  it  does  not  have  a  wild  and  barren  look. 
At  home,  one  thinks  of  a  mountain  as  either  a  vast 
pile  of  barren,   frowning  rocks  and  precipices,    or 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND  7 

else  a  steep  acclivity  covered  with  a  tangle  of  primi- 
tive forest  timber.  But  here,  the  mountains  are 
high,  grassy  sheep-walks,  smooth,  treeless,  rounded, 
and  as  green  as  if  dipped  in  a  fountain  of  perpetual 
spring.  I  did  not  wish  my  Catskills  any  different; 
but  I  wondered  what  would  need  to  be  done  to 
them  to  make  them  look  like  these  Scotch  high- 
lands. Cut  away  their  forests,  rub  down  all  in- 
equalities in  their  surfaces,  pulverizing  their  loose 
bowlders;  turf  them  over,  leaving  the  rock  to  show 
through  here  and  there,  —  then,  with  a  few  large 
black  patches  to  represent  the  heather,  and  the  soft- 
ening and  ameliorating  effect  of  a  mild,  humid  cli- 
mate, they  might  in  time  come  to  bear  some  resem- 
blance to  these  shepherd  mountains.  Then  over 
all  the  landscape  is  that  new  look,  —  that  mellow, 
legendary,  half-human  expression  which  nature 
wears  in  these  ancestral  lands,  an  expression  famil- 
iar in  pictures  and  in  literature,  but  which  a  native 
of  our  side  of  the  Atlantic  has  never  before  seen  in 
gross,  material  objects  and  open-air  spaces,  — the 
added  charm  of  the  sentiment  of  time  and  human 
history,  the  ripening  and  ameliorating  influence  of 
long  ages  of  close  and  loving  occupation  of  the  soil, 
—  naturally  a  deep,  fertile  soil  under  a  mild,  very 
humid  climate. 

There  is  an  unexpected,  an  unexplained  lure  and 
attraction  in  the  landscape,  —  a  pensive,  reminiscent 
feeling  in  the  air  itself.  Nature  has  grown  mellow 
under  these  humid  skies,  as  in  our  fiercer  climate 
she  grows  harsh  and  severe.      One  sees  at  once  why 


8  FRESH   FIELDS 

this  fragrant  Old  World  has  so  dominated  the  affec- 
tions and  the  imaginations  of  our  artists  and  poets: 
it  is  saturated  with  human  qualities;  it  is  unctuous 
with  the  ripeness    of  ages,    the  very  marrowfat  of 

time. 

II 

I  had  come  to  Great  Britain  less  to  see  the  noted 
sights  and  places  than  to  observe  the  general  face 
of  nature.  I  wanted  to  steep  myself  long  and  well 
in  that  mellow,  benign  landscape,  and  put  to  further 
tests  the  impressions  I  had  got  of  it  during  a  hasty 
visit  one  autumn,  eleven  years  before.  Hence  I 
was  mainly  intent  on  roaming  about  the  country,  it 
mattered  little  where.  Like  an  attic  stored  with 
relics  and  heirlooms,  there  is  no  place  in  England 
where  you  cannot  instantly  turn  from  nature  to 
scenes  and  places  of  deep  historical  or  legendary  or 
artistic  interest. 

My  journal  of  travel  is  a  brief  one,  and  keeps  to 
a  few  of  the  main  lines.  After  spending  a  couple 
of  days  in  Glasgow,  we  went  down  to  AUoway,  in 
Burns's  country,  and  had  our  first  taste  of  the 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  rural  Britain,  and  of  the 
privacy  and  comfort  of  a  little  Scotch  inn.  The 
weather  was  exceptionally  fair,  and  the  mellow 
Ayrshire  landscape,  threaded  by  the  Doon,  a  per- 
petual delight.  Thence  we  went  north  on  a  short 
tour  through  the  Highlands,  —  up  Loch  Lomond, 
down  Loch  Katrine,  and  through  the  Trosachs  to 
Callander,  and  thence  to  Stirling  and  Edinburgh. 
After  a  few  days  in  the  Scotch  capital  we  set  out 


NATURE    IN   ENGLAND  9 

for  Carlyle's  country,  where  we  passed  five  deliglit- 
ful  days.  The  next  week  found  us  in  Words- 
worth's land,  and  the  10th  of  June  in  London. 
After  a  week  here  I  went  down  into  Surrey  and 
Hants,  in  quest  of  the  nightingale,  for  four  or  five 
days.  Till  the  middle  of  July  I  hovered  about 
London,  making  frequent  excursions  into  the  coun- 
try, —  east,  south,  north,  west,  and  once  across  the 
channel  into  France,  where  I  had  a  long  walk  over 
the  hills  about  Boulogne.  July  15  we  began  our 
return  journey  northward,  stopping  a  few  days  at 
Stratford,  where  I  found  the  Red  Horse  Inn  sadly 
degenerated  from  excess  of  travel.  Thence  again 
into  the  Lake  region  for  a  longer  stay.  From 
Grasmere  we  went  into  north  Wales,  and  did  the 
usual  touring  and  sight-seeing  around  and  over  the 
mountains.  The  last  week  of  July  we  were  again 
in  Glasgow,  from  which  port  we  sailed  on  our  home- 
ward voyage  July  29. 

With  a  suitable  companion,  I  should  probably 
have  made  many  long  pedestrian  tours.  As  it  was, 
I  took  many  short  but  delightful  walks  both  in 
England  and  Scotland,  with  a  half  day's  walk  in 
the  north  of  Ireland  about  Moville.  'T  is  an  admi- 
rable country  to  walk  in,  —  the  roads  are  so  dry 
and  smooth  and  of  such  easy  grade,  the  footpaths 
so  numerous  and  so  bold,  and  the  climate  so  cool 
and  tonic.  One  night,  with  a  friend,  I  walked 
from  Rochester  to  Maidstone,  part  of  the  way  in  a 
slow  rain  and  part  of  the  way  in  the  darkness.  We 
had  proposed  to  put  up  at  some  one  of  the  little 


10  FEESH   FIELDS 

inns  on  the  road,  and  get  a  view  of  the  weald  of 
Kent  in  the  morning ;  but  the  inns  refused  us  enter- 
tainment, and  we  were  compelled  to  do  the  eight 
miles  at  night,  stepping  off  very  lively  the  last  four 
in  order  to  reach  Maidstone  before  the  hotels  were 
shut  up,   which  takes   place  at  eleven  o'clock.      I 
learned  this  night  how  fragrant  the  English  elder  is 
while  in  bloom,    and  that  distance   lends   enchant- 
ment to  the  smell.      When  I  plucked  the  flowers, 
which  seemed  precisely  like  our  own,  the  odor  was 
rank  and  disagreeable ;  but  at  the  distance  of  a  few 
yards  it  floated  upon   the   moist   air,   a    spicy  and 
pleasing  perfume.      The  elder  here   grows   to  be  a 
veritable    tree;    I    saw    specimens    seven    or    eight 
inches  in  diameter  and  twenty  feet  high.      In  the 
morning  we  walked  back  by  a  different  route,  tak- 
ing in  Boxley  Church,  where   the  pilgrims  used  to 
pause  on  their  way  to  Canterbury,  and  getting  many 
good    views    of    Kent    grain-fields    and    hop-yards. 
Sometimes  the  road  wound  through  the  landscape 
like  a  footpath,    with  nothing  between  it  and  the 
rank-growing  crops.      An   occasional    newly-j^lowed 
field  presented  a  curious  appearance.      The  soil  is 
upon  the  chalk  formation,  and  is  full  of  large  frag- 
ments of  flint.      These  work  out  upon  the  surface, 
and,  being  white  and  full  of  articulations  and  pro- 
cesses, give  to  the  ground  the  appearance  of  being 
thickly    strewn    with    bones,  —  with    thigh    bones 
greatly  foreshortened.     Yet  these  old  bones  in  skill- 
ful hands  make  a  most  effective  building  material. 
They  appear   in  all  the  old  churches  and  ancient 


NATUllE   IN   ENGLAND  11 

buildings  in  the  south  of  England.  Broken  squarely 
off,  the  flint  shows  a  fine  semi-transparent  surface 
that,  in  combination  with  coarser  material,  has  a 
remarkable  crystalline  effect.  One  of  the  most 
delicious  bits  of  architectural  decoration  I  saw  in 
England  was  produced,  in  the  front  wall  of  one  of 
the  old  buildings  attached  to  the  cathedral  at  Can- 
terbury, by  little  squares  of  these  flints  in  brick 
panel-work.  The  cool,  pellucid,  illuminating  efi'ect 
of  the  flint  was  just  the  proper  foil  to  the  warm, 
glowing,  livid  brick. 

From  Eochester  we  walked  to  Gravesend,  over 
Gad's  Hillj  the  day  soft  and  warm,  half  sunshine, 
half  shadow ;  the  air  full  of  the  songs  of  skylarks ; 
a  rich,  fertile  landscape  all  about  us;  the  waving 
wheat  just  in  bloom,  dashed  with  scarlet  poppies; 
and  presently,  on  the  right,  the  Thames  in  view 
dotted  with  vessels.  Seldom  any  cattle  or  grazing 
herds  in  Kent ;  the  ground  is  too  valuable ;  it  is  all 
given  up  to  wheat,  oats,  barley,  hops,  fruit,  and  vari- 
ous garden  produce. 

A  few  days  later  we  walked  from  Feversham  to 
Canterbury,  and  from  the  top  of  Harbledown  hill 
saw  the  magnificent  cathedral  suddenly  break  upon 
us  as  it  did  upon  the  footsore  and  worshipful  pil- 
grims centuries  ago.  At  this  point,  it  is  said,  they 
knelt  down,  which  seems  quite  probable,  the  view 
is  so  imposing.  The  cathedral  stands  out  from  and 
above  the  city,  as  if  the  latter  were  the  foundation 
upon  which  it  rested.  On  this  walk  we  passed 
several  of  the  famous  cherry  orchards  of  Kent,  the 


12  FRESH   FIELDS 

thriftiest  trees  and  the  finest  fruit  I  ever  saw.  We 
invaded  one  of  the  orchards,  and  proposed  to  pur- 
chase some  of  the  fruit  of  the  men  engaged  in  gath- 
ering  it.  But  they  refused  to  sell  it;  had  no  right 
to  do  so,  they  said;  but  one  of  them  followed  us 
across  the  orchard,  and  said  in  a  confidential  way 
that  he  would  see  that  we  had  some  cherries.  He 
filled  my  companion's  hat,  and  accepted  our  shilling 
with  alacrity.  In  getting  back  into  the  highway, 
over  the  wire  fence,  I  got  my  clothes  well  tarred 
before  I  was  aware  of  it.  The  fence  proved  to  be 
well  besmeared  with  a  mixture  of  tar  and  grease,  — 
an  ingenious  device  for  marking  trespassers.  We 
sat  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  and  ate  our  fruit  and 
scraped  our  clothes,  while  a  troop  of  bicyclists  filed 
by.  About  the  best  glimpses  I  had  of  Canterbury 
cathedral  —  after  the  first  view  from  Harbledown 
hill  —  were  obtained  while  lying  upon  my  back  on 
the  grass,  under  the  shadow  of  its  walls,  and  gazing 
up  at  the  jackdaws  flying  about  the  central  tower 
and  going  out  and  in  weather-worn  openings  three 
hundred  feet  above  me.  There  seemed  to  be  some 
wild,  pinnacled  mountain  peak  or  rocky  ledge  up 
there  toward  the  sky,  where  the  fowls  of  the  air 
had  made  their  nests,  secure  from  molestation. 
The  way  the  birds  make  themselves  at  home  about 
these  vast  architectural  piles  is  very  pleasing. 
Doves,  starlings,  jackdaws,  swallows,  sparrows,  take 
to  them  as  to  a  wood  or  to  a  cliff.  If  there  were 
only  something  to  give  a  corresponding  touch  of 
nature  or  a  throb  of  life  inside !     But  their  interiors 


NATURE    IN   ENGLAND  13 

are  only  impressive  sepulchres,  tombs  within  a 
tomb.  Your  own  footfalls  seem  like  the  echo  of 
past  ages.  These  cathedrals  belong  to  the  pleisto- 
cene period  of  man's  religious  history,  the  period 
of  gigantic  forms.  How  vast,  how  monstrous,  how 
terrible  in  beauty  and  power!  but  in  our  day  as 
empty  and  dead  as  the  shells  upon  the  shore.  The 
cold,  thin  ecclesiasticism  that  now  masquerades  in 
them  hardly  disturbs  the  dust  in  their  central  aisles. 
I  saw  five  worshipers  at  the  choral  service  in  Can- 
terbury, and  about  the  same  number  of  curious 
spectators.  For  my  part,  I  could  not  take  my  eyes 
off  the  remnants  of  some  of  the  old  stained  windows 
up  aloft.  If  I  worshiped  at  all,  it  was  my  devout 
admiration  of  those  superb  relics.  There  could  be 
no  doubt  about  the  faith  that  inspired  those.  Be- 
low them  were  some  gorgeous  modern  memorial 
windows:  stained  glass,  indeed!  loud,  garish,  thin, 
painty;  while  these  were  like  a  combination  of  pre- 
cious stones  and  gems,  full  of  depth  and  richness  of 
tone,  and,  above  all,  serious,  not  courting  your 
attention.  My  eye  was  not  much  taken  with  them 
at  first,  and  not  till  after  it  had  recoiled  from  the 
hard,  thin  glare  in  my  immediate  front. 

From  Canterbury  I  went  to  Dover,  and  spent 
part  of  a  day  walking  along  the  cliffs  to  Folkestone. 
There  is  a  good  footpath  that  skirts  the  edge  of  the 
cliffs,  and  it  is  much  frequented.  It  is  character- 
istic of  the  compactness  and  neatness  of  this  little 
island,  that  there  is  not  an  inch  of  waste  land  along 
this  sea  margin;  the  fertile  rolling  landscape,  ^vav- 


14  FKESH   FIELDS 

ing  with  wheat  and  barley,  and  with  grass  just 
ready  for  the  scythe,  is  cut  squarely  off  by  the  sea; 
the  plow  and  the  reaper  come  to  the  very  brink  of 
the  chalky  cliffs.  As  you  sit  down  on  Shake- 
speare's Cliff,  with  your  feet  dangling  in  the  air  at 
a  height  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  you  can 
reach  back  and  pluck  the  grain  heads  and  the  scar- 
let poppies.  Never  have  I  seen  such  quiet  pastoral 
beauty  take  such  a  sudden  leap  into  space.  Yet 
the  scene  is  tame  in  one  sense:  there  is  no  hint  of 
the  wild  and  the  savage;  the  rock  is  soft  and  fri- 
able, a  kind  of  chalky  bread,  which  the  sea  devours 
readily;  the  hills  are  like  freshly  cut  loaves;  slice 
after  slice  has  been  eaten  away  by  the  hungry  ele- 
ments. Sitting  here,  I  saw  no  "  crows  and  choughs  " 
winging  "the  midway  air,"  but  a  species  of  hawk, 
"haggards  of  the  rocks,"  Avere  disturbed  in  the 
niches  beneath  me,   and  flew  along  from  point  to 

point. 

"  The  muvmuving  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumbei-'d  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high." 

I  had  wondered  why  Shakespeare  had  made  his 
seashores  pebbly  instead  of  sandy,  and  now  I  saw 
why:  they  are  pebbly,  with  not  a  grain  of  sand  to 
be  found.  This  chalk  formation,  as  I  have  already 
said,  is  full  of  flint  nodules;  and  as  the  shore  is 
eaten  away  by  the  sea,  these  rounded  masses  remain. 
They  soon  become  worn  into  smooth  pebbles,  which 
beneath  the  pounding  of  the  surf  give  out  a  strange 
clinking,   rattling  sound.      Across  the  Channel,  on 


NATURE   IN    ENGLAND  15 

the  French  side,  there  is  more  sand,  but  it  is  of  the 
hue  of  mud  and  not  pleasing  to  look  upon. 

Of  other  walks  I  had  in  England,  I  recall  with 
pleasure  a  Sunday  up  the  Thames  toward  Windsor: 
the  day  perfect,  the  river  alive  with  row-boats,  the 
shore  swarming  with  pedestrians  and  picnickers; 
young  athletic  London,  male  and  female,  rushing 
forth  as  hungry  for  the  open  air  and  the  water  as 
young  mountain  herds  for  salt.  I  never  saw  or 
imagined  anything  like  it.  One  shore  of  the 
Thames,  sometimes  the  right,  sometimes  the  left, 
it  seems,  belongs  to  the  public.  No  private  grounds, 
however  lordly,  are  allowed  to  monopolize  both 
sides. 

Another  walk  was  about  Winchester  and  Salis- 
bury, with  more  cathedral-viewing.  One  of  the 
most  human  things  to  be  seen  in  the  great  cathe- 
drals is  the  carven  image  of  some  old  knight  or 
warrior  prince  resting  above  his  tomb,  with  his  feet 
upon  his  faithful  dog.  I  was  touched  by  this 
remembrance  of  the  dog.  In  all  cases  he  looked 
alert  and  watchful,  as  if  guarding  his  master  while 
he  slept.  I  noticed  that  Cromwell's  soldiers  were 
less  apt  to  batter  off  the  nose  and  ears  of  the  dog 
than  they  were  those  of  the  knight. 

At  Stratford  I  did  more  walking.  After  a  row 
on  the  river,  we  strolled  through  the  low,  grassy 
field  in  front  of  the  church,  redolent  of  cattle  and 
clover,  and  sat  for  an  hour  on  the  margin  of  the 
stream  and  enjoyed  the  pastoral  beauty  and  the 
sunshine.      In    the    afternoon    (it    was    Sunday)    I 


16  FRESH   FIELDS 

walked  across  the  fields  to  Shottery,  and  then  fol- 
lowed the  road  as  it  wound  amid  the  quaint  little 
thatched  cottages  till  it  ended  at  a  stile  from  which 
a  footpath  led  across  broad,  sunny  fields  to  a  stately 
highway.  To  give  a  more  minute  account  of  Eng- 
lish country  scenes  and  sounds  in  midsummer,  I 
will  here  copy  some  jottings  in  my  note-book,  made 
then  and  there :  — 

^'July    16.      In    the    fields    beyond    Shottery. 
Bright  and  breezy,  with  appearance  of  slight  show- 
ers in  the  distance.      Thermometer  probably  about 
seventy;   a  good  working   temperature.      Clover  — 
white,  red,  and  yellow  (white  predominating)  —  in 
the  fields  all  about  me.      The  red  very  ruddy ;  the 
white  large.      The  only  noticeable  bird  voice  that 
of  the  yellow-hammer,   two  or  three  being  within 
ear-shot.      The  song  is  much  like  certain  sparrow 
songs,   only  inferior:   Sip,   sij),   sip,   see-e-e-e ;   or. 
If,    if,    if  you  ple-e-ease.       Honey-bees    on    the 
white  clover.      Turf  very  thick  and  springy,    sup- 
porting two  or  three  kinds  of  grass  resembling  red- 
top  and  bearded  rye-grass.     Narrow-leaved  plantain, 
a  few  buttercups,  a  small  yellow  flower  unknown  to 
me  (probably  ladies'  fingers),  also  a  species  of  dan- 
delion and  prunella,      'the  land  thrown  into  marked 
swells  tAventy  feet  broad.      Two  Sunday-school  girls 
lying  on  the  grass  in  the  other  end  of  the  field.      A 
number  of  young  men  playing  some  game,  perhaps 
cards,  seated  on  the  ground  in  an  adjoining  field. 
Scarcely  any  signs  of  midsummer  to  me;  no  ripe- 
ness  or   maturity   in   nature   yet.      The   grass   very 


NATUKE    IN    ENGLAND  17 

tender  and  succulent,    the   streams   full  and  roily. 
Yarrow  and  cinquefoil  also  in  the  grass  where  I  sit. 
The   plantain   in   bloom  and  fragrant.      Along  the 
Avon,  the  meadow-sweet  in  full  bloom,  with  a  fine 
cinnamon  odor.      A  wild  rose  here  and  there  in  the 
hedge-rows.      The    wild    clematis    nearly   ready    to 
bloom,  in  appearance  almost  identical  with  our  own. 
The  wheat  and  oats  full-grown,  but  not  yet  turning. 
The  clouds  soft  and  fleecy.      Prunella  dark  purple. 
A  few  paces  farther  on  I  enter  a  highway,  one  of 
the  broadest  I    have  seen,   the    roadbed  hard  and 
smooth    as    usual,    about    sixteen    feet    wide,    with 
grassy    margins    twelve    feet    wide,    redolent    with 
white  and  red  clover.      A  rich  farming   landscape 
spreads  around  me,  with  blue  hills  in  the  far  west. 
Cool  and  fresh  like  June.      Bumblebees  here  and 
there,  more  hairy  than  at  home.      A  plow  in  a  field 
by  the  roadside  is  so  heavy  I  can  barely  move  it, 
—  at  least   three   times   as   heavy  as   an  American 
plow ;  beam  very  long,  tails  four  inches  square,  the 
mould-board  a  thick  plank.      The  soil  like  putty; 
where  it  dries,  crumbling  into  small,   hard  lumps, 
but  sticky  and  tough  when  damp,  —  Shakespeare's 
soil,  the  finest  and  most  versatile  wit  of  the  world, 
the  product  of  a  sticky,  stubborn  clay-bank.      Here 
is  a  field  where  every  alternate  swell  is  small.     The 
large  swells  heave  up  in  a  very  molten-like  way  — 
real  turfy  billows,    crested  with  wdiite   clover-blos- 
soms. " 

"  Jidy  17.      On  the  road  to  Warwick,  two  miles 
from  Stratford.      Morning  bright,  with  sky  full  of 


18  FEESH    FIELDS 

white,  soft,  high-piled  thunderheads.  Plenty  of 
pink  blackberry  blossoms  along  the  road;  herb 
Robert  in  bloom,  and  a  kind  of  Solomon' s-seal  as 
at  home,  and  what  appears  to  be  a  species  of  golden- 
rod  with  a  midsummery  smell.  The  note  of  the 
yellow-hammer  and  the  wren  here  and  there.  Beech- 
trees  loaded  with  mast  and  humming  with  bumble- 
bees, probably  gathering  honey-dew,  which  seems 
to  be  more  abundant  here  than  with  us.  The  land- 
scape like  a  well-kept  park  dotted  with  great  trees, 
which  make  islands  of  shade  in  a  sea  of  grass. 
Droves  of  sheep  grazing,  and  herds  of  cattle  re- 
posing in  the  succulent  fields.  Now  the  just  felt 
breeze  brings  me  the  rattle  of  a  mowing-machine,  a 
rare  sound  here,  as  most  of  the  grass  is  cut  by  hand. 
The  great  motionless  arms  of  a  windmill  rising  here 
and  there  above  the  horizon.  A  gentleman's  turn- 
out goes  by  with  glittering  wheels  and  spanking 
team;  the  footman  in  livery  behind,  the  gentleman 
driving.  I  hear  his  brake  scrape  as  he  puts  it  on 
down  the  gentle  descent.  Now  a  lark  goes  off. 
Then  the  mellow  horn  of  a  cow  or  heifer  is  heard. 
Then  the  bleat  of  sheep.  The  crows  caw  hoarsely. 
Few  houses  by  the  roadside,  but  here  and  there 
behind  the  trees  in  the  distance.  I  hear  the  green- 
finch, stronger  and  sharper  than  our  goldfinch,  but 
less  pleasing.  The  matured  look  of  some  fields  of 
grass  alone  suggests  midsummer.  Several  sj)ecies  of 
mint  by  the  roadside,  also  certain  white  umbeliifer- 
ous  plants.  Everywhere  that  royal  weed  of  Brit- 
ain, the  nettle.      Shapely  piles  of  road  material  and 


NATURE   IN    ENGLAND  19 

pounded  stone  at  regular  distances,  every  fragment 
of  which  will   go   through   a   two-inch  ring.      The 
roads  are  mended  only  in  winter,  and  are  kept  as 
smooth  and  hard  as  a  rock.      No  swells  or  *  thank- 
y'-ma'ams  '   in  them  to  turn  the  water:  they  shed 
the  water  like  a  rounded  pavement.      On  the  hill, 
three  miles  from  Stratford,  where  a  finger-post  points 
you  to  Hampton  Lucy,  I  turn  and  see  the  spire  of 
Shakespeare's  church  between  the  trees.      It  lies  in 
a  broad,  gentle  valley,  and  rises  above  much  foliage. 
'  I  hope  and  praise  God  it  will  keep  f oine, '  said  the 
old   woman   at   whose   little   cottage  I  stopped  for 
ginger-beer,    attracted    by    a   sign   in    the   window. 
'  One  penny,  sir,  if  you  please.      I  made  it  myself, 
sir.      I    do   not   leave   the   front   door   unfastened ' 
(undoing  it  to  let  me  out)  '  when  I  am  down  in  the 
garden. '      A  weasel  runs  across  the  road  in  front  of 
me,  and  is  scolded  by  a  little  bird.      The  body  of 
a   dead   hedgehog   festering   beside   the   hedge.      A 
species  of  St.  John's- wort  in  bloom,  teasels,  and  a 
small  convolvulus.      Also  a  species  of  plantain  with 
a  head  large  as  my  finger,  purple  tinged  with  white. 
Road     margins    wide,    grassy,    and    fragrant     with 
clover.      Privet  in  bloom  in  the  hedges,  panicles  of 
small    white    flowers    faintly    sweet-scented.       '  As 
clean  and  white  as   privet  when   it  flowers,'   says 
Tennyson   in    '  Walking   to   the   Mail. '      The   road 
and  avenue  between   noble   trees,  beech,   ash,    elm, 
and  oak.      All  the  fields  are  bounded  by  lines  of 
stately  trees;  the  distance  is  black  with  them.      A 
large  thistle  by  the  roadside,  with  homeless  bumble- 


20  FRESH    FIELDS 

bees  on  the  heads  as  at  home,  some  of  them  white- 
faced  and  stingless.  Thistles  rare  in  this  country. 
Weeds  of  all  kinds  rare  except  the  nettle.  The 
place  to  see  the  Scotch  thistle  is  not  in  Scotland  or 
England,  but  in  America." 

Ill 

England  is  like  the  margin  of  a  spring-run, 
near  its  source,  —  always  green,  always  cool,  always 
moist,  comparatively  free  from  frost  in  winter  and 
from  drought  in  summer.  The  spring-run  to  which 
it  owes  this  character  is  the  Gulf  Stream,  which 
brings  out  of  the  pit  of  the  southern  ocean  what  the 
fountain  brings  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth  —  a 
uniform  temperature,  low  but  constant;  a  fog  in 
winter,  a  cloud  in  summer.  The  spirit  of  gentle, 
fertilizing  summer  rain  perhaps  never  took  such 
tangible  and  topographical  shape  before.  Cloud- 
evolved,  cloud-enveloped,  cloud-^jrotected,  it  fills 
the  eye  of  the  American  traveler  with  a  vision  of 
greenness  such  as  he  has  never  before  dreamed  of; 
a  greenness  born  of  perpetual  May,  tender,  untar- 
nished, ever  renewed,  and  as  uniform  and  all- per- 
vading as  the  rain-drops  that  fall,  covering  moun- 
tain, cliff,  and  vale  alike.  The  softened,  rounded, 
flowing  outlines  given  to  our  landscape  by  a  deep 
fall  of  snow  are  given  to  the  English  by  this  depth 
of  vegetable  mould  and  this  all-prevailing  verdure 
which  it  supports.  Indeed,  it  is  caught  upon  the 
shelves  and  projections  of  the  rocks  as  if  it  fell 
from  the  clouds,  —  a  kind  of  green  snow,  —  and  it 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND  21 

clings  to  their  rough  or  slanting  sides  like  moist 
flakes.  In  the  little  valleys  and  chasms  it  appears 
to  lie  deepest.  Only  the  peaks  and  broken  rocky 
crests  of  the  highest  Scotch  and  Cumberland  moun- 
tains are  bare.  Adown  their  treeless  sides  the 
moist,  fresh  greenness  fairly  drips.  Grass,  grass, 
grass,  and  evermore  grass.  Is  there  another  coun- 
try under  the  sun  so  becushioned,  becarpeted,  and 
becurtained  with  grass?  Even  the  woods  are  full 
of  grass,  and  I  have  seen  them  mowing  in  a  forest. 
Grass  grows  upon  the  rocks,  upon  the  walls,  on  the 
tops  of  the  old  castles,  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses, 
and  in  winter  the  hay-seed  sometimes  sprouts  upon 
the  backs  of  the  sheep.  Turf  used  as  capping  to 
a  stone  fence  thrives  and  blooms  as  if  upon  the 
ground.  There  seems  to  be  a  deposit  from  the  at- 
mosphere, —  a  slow  but  steady  accumulation  of  a 
black,  peaty  mould  upon  all  exposed  surfaces,  — 
that  by  and  by  supports  feome  of  the  lower  or  cryp- 
togamous  forms  of  vegetation.  These  decay  and 
add  to  the  soil,  till  thus  in  time  grass  and  other 
plants  will  grow.  The  walls  of  the  old  castles  and 
cathedrals  support  a  variety  of  plant  life.  On 
Kochester  Castle  I  saw  two  or  three  species  of  large 
wild  flowers  growing  one  hundred  feet  from  the 
ground  and  tempting  the  tourist  to  perilous  reach- 
ings  and  climbings  to  get  them.  The  very  stones 
seem  to  sprout.  My  companion  made  a  sketch  of 
a  striking  group  of  red  and  white  flowers  blooming 
far  up  on  one  of  the  buttresses  of  Rochester  Cathe- 
dral.     The  soil  will  climb  to  any  height.      Indeed, 


22  FRESH   FIELDS 

there  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  finer  soil  floating  in  the 
air.  How  else  can  one  account  for  the  general 
smut  of  the  human  face  and  hands  in  this  country, 
and  the  impossibility  of  keeping  his  own  clean? 
The  unwashed  hand  here  quickly  leaves  its  mark 
on  whatever  it  touches.  A  prolonged  neglect  of 
soap  and  water,  and  I  think  one  would  be  presently 
covered  with  a  fine  green  mould,  like  that  upon 
the  boles  of  the  trees  in  the  woods.  If  the  rains 
were  not  occasionally  heavy  enough  to  clean  them 
off,  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  roofs  of  all  buildings 
in  England  would  in  a  few  years  be  covered  with" 
turf,  and  that  daisies  and  buttercups  would  bloom 
upon  them.  How  quickly  all  new  buildings  take 
on  the  prevailing  look  of  age  and  mellowness! 
One  needs  to  have  seen  the  great  architectural  piles 
and  monuments  of  Britain  to  appreciate  Shake- 
speare's line,  — 

"  That  unswept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish  Time." 

He  must  also  have  seen  those  Scotch  or  Cumberland 
mountains  to  appreciate  the  descriptive  force  of  this 
other  line,  — 

"The  turfy  mountains  where  live  the  nibbling  sheep." 

The  turfy  mountains  are  the  unswept  stones  that 
have  held  and  utilized  their  ever-increasing  capital 
of  dirt.  These  vast  rocky  eminences  are  stuffed 
and  padded  with  peat;  it  is  the  sooty  soil  of  the 
housetops  and  of  the  grimy  human  hand,  deepened 
and  accumulated  till  it  nourishes  the  finest,  sweetest 
grass. 

It  was  this  turfy  and  grassy  character  of  these 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND  23 

mountains  —  I  am  tempted  to  say  their  cushionary 
character  —  that  no  reading  or  picture  viewing  of 
mine  had  prepared  me  for.  In  the  cut  or  on  can- 
vas they  appeared  like  hard  and  frowning  rocks; 
and  here  I  beheld  them  as  green  and  succulent  as 
any  meadow-bank  in  April  or  May,  —  vast,  elevated 
sheep-walks  and  rabbit-warrens,  treeless,  shrubless, 
generally  without  loose  bowlders,  shelving  rocks,  or 
sheer  precipices;  often  rounded,  feminine,  dimpled, 
or  impressing  one  as  if  the  rock  had  been  thrust  up 
beneath  an  immense  stretch  of  the  finest  lawn,  and 
had  carried  the  turf  with  it  heavenward,  rending  it 
here  and  there,  but  preserving  acres  of  it  intact. 

In  Scotland  I  ascended  Ben  Venue,  not  one  of 
the  highest  or  ruggedest  of  the  Scotch  mountains, 
but  a  fair  sample  of  them,  and  my  foot  was  seldom 
off  the  grass  or  bog,  often  sinking  into  them  as  into  a 
saturated  sponge.  Where  I  expected  a  dry  course, 
I  found  a  wet  one.  The  thick,  springy  turf  was 
oozing  with  water.  Instead  of  being  balked  by 
precipices,  I  was  hindered  by  swamps.  Where  a 
tangle  of  brush  or  a  chaos  of  bowlders  should  have 
detained  me,  I  was  picking  my  way  as  through  a 
wet  meadow-bottom  tilted  up  at  an  angle  of  forty- 
five  degrees.  My  feet  became  soaked  when  my 
shins  should  have  been  bruised.  Occasionally,  a 
large  deposit  of  peat  in  some  favored  place  had 
given  way  beneath  the  strain  of  much  water,  and 
left  a  black  chasm  a  few  yards  wide  and  a  yard  or 
more  deep.  Cold  spring-runs  were  abundant,  wild 
flowers  few,  grass  universal.      A  loping  hare  started 


24  -  FRESH   FIELDS 

up  before  me;  a  pair  of  ringed  ousels  took  a  hasty 
glance  at  me  from  behind  a  rock;  sheep  and  lambs, 
the  latter  white  and  conspicuous  beside  their  dingy 
and  all  but  invisible  dams,  were  scattered  here  and 
there;  the  wheat-ear  uncovered  its  white  rump  as  it 
flitted  from  rock  to  rock,  and  the  mountain  pipit 
displayed  its  larklike  tail.  No  sound  of  wind  in 
the  trees;  there  were  no  trees,  no  seared  branches 
and  trunks  that  so  enhance  and  set  off  the  wildness 
of  our  mountain-tops.  On  the  summit  the  wind 
whistled  around  the  outcropping  rocks  and  hummed 
among  the  heather,  but  the  great  mountain  did  not 
purr  or  roar  like  one  covered  with  forests. 

I  lingered  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  gazed  upon 
the  stretch  of  mountain  and  vale  about  me.  The 
summit  of  Ben  Lomond,  eight  or  ten  miles  to  the 
west,  rose  a  few  hundred  feet  above  me.  On  four 
peaks  I  could  see  snow  or  miniature  glaciers.  Only 
four  or  five  houses,  mostly  humble  shepherd  dwell- 
ings, were  visible  in  that  wide  circuit.  The  sun 
shone  out  at  intervals;  the  driving  clouds  floated 
low,  their  keels  scraping  the  rocks  of  some  of  the 
higher  summits.  The  atmosphere  was  filled  with 
a  curious  white  film,  like  water  tinged  with  milk, 
an  efl'ect  only  produced  at  home  by  a  fine  mist. 
"A  certain  tameness  in  the  view,  after  all,"  I 
recorded  in  my  note-book  on  the  spot,  "perhaps 
because  of  the  trim  and  grassy  character  of  the 
mountain ;  not  solemn  and  impressive ;  no  sense  of 
age  or  power.  The  rock  crops  out  everywhere,  but 
it  can  hardly  look  you  in  the  face;  it  is  crumbling 


NATUKE   IN   ENGLAND     ^  25 

and  insignificant;  shows  no  frowning  walls,  no  tre- 
mendous cleavage ;  nothing  overhanging  and  precipi- 
tous; no  wrath  and  revel  of  the  elder  gods." 

Even  in  rugged  Scotland  nature  is  scarcely  wilder 
than  a  mountain  sheep,  certainly  a  good  way  short 
of  the  ferity  of  the  moose  and  caribou.  There  is 
everywhere  marked  repose  and  moderation  in  the 
scenery,  a  kind  of  aboriginal  Scotch  canniness  and 
propriety  that  gives  one  a  new  sensation.  On  and 
about  Ben  Nevis  there  is  barrenness,  cragginess, 
and  desolation;  but  the  characteristic  feature  of 
wild  Scotch  scenery  is  the  moor,  lifted  up  into 
mountains,  covering  low,  broad  hills,  or  stretching 
away  in  undulating  plains,  black,  silent,  melancholy, 
it  may  be,  but  never  savage  or  especially  wild. 
"The  vast  and  yet  not  savage  solitude,"  Carlyle 
says,  referring  to  these  moorlands.  The  soil  is 
black  and  peaty,  often  boggy;  the  heather  short 
and  uniform  as  prairie  grass;  a  shepherd's  cottage 
or  a  sportsman's  "box"  stuck  here  and  there  amid 
the  hills.  The  highland  cattle  are  shaggy  and  pic- 
turesque, but  the  moors  and  mountains  are  close 
cropped  and  vmiform.  The  solitude  is  not  that  of 
a  forest  full  of  still  forms  and  dim  vistas,  but  of 
wide,  open,  sombre  spaces.  Nature  did  not  look 
alien  or  unfriendly  to  me;  there  must  be  barrenness 
or  some  savage  threatening  feature  in  the  landscape 
to  produce  this  impression;  but  the  heather  and 
whin  are  like  a  permanent  shadow,  and  one  longs 
to  see  the  trees  stand  up  and  wave  their  branches. 
The   torrents   leaping  down   off  the   mountains  are 


26  FRESH   FIELDS 

very  welcome  to  both  eye  and  ear.  And  the  lakes 
—  nothing  can  be  prettier  than  Loch  Lomond  and 
Loch  Katrine,  though  one  wishes  for  some  of  the 
superfluous  rocks  of  the  New  World  to  give  their 
beauty  a  granite  setting. 

IV 

It   is   characteristic   of    nature   in  England    that 
most    of    the    stone   with   which    the    old .  bridges, 
churches,    and  cathedrals  are  built  is   so   soft   that 
people   carve   their   initials   in   it  with   their  jack- 
knives,  as  we  do  in  the  bark  of  a  tree  or  in  a  piece 
of    pine    timber.      At    Stratford    a    card    has    been 
posted  upon  the  outside  of  the  old  church,  implor- 
ing visitors  to  refrain  from  this  barbarous  practice. 
One  sees  names  and  dates  there  more  than  a  century 
old.      Often,    in  leaning   over  the  parapets   of   the 
bridges  along  the  highways,  I  would  find  them  cov- 
ered with  letters  and  figures.      Tourists  have  made 
such  havoc   chipping   off   fragments   from    the    old 
Brig  o'  Doon  in  Burns 's  country,  that  the  parapet 
has  had  to  be  repaired.      One  could  cut  out  the  key  of 
the  arch  with  his  pocket-knife.      And  yet  these  old 
structures  outlast  empires.      A  few  miles  from  Glas- 
gow I  saw  the  remains  of  an  old  Eoman  bridge,  the 
arch  apparently  as  perfect  as  when  the  first  Eoman 
chariot   passed   over   it,    probably   fifteen    centuries 
ago.      No  wheels  but  those  of  time  pass  over  it  in 
these  later  centuries,  and  these  seem  to  be  driven 
slowly  and  gently  in  this  land,  with  but  little  wear 
and  tear  to  the  ancient  highways. 


NATURE    IN   ENGLAND  27 

England  is  not  a  country  of  granite  and  marble, 
but  of  chalk,  marl,  and  clay.  The  old  Plutonic 
gods  do  not  assert  themselves;  they  are  buried  and 
turned  to  dust,  and  the  more  modern  humanistic 
divinities  bear  sway.  The  land  is  a  green  cemetery 
of  extinct  rude  forces.  Where  the  highway  or  the 
railway  gashed  the  hills  deeply,  I  could  seldom  tell 
where  the  soil  ended  and  the  rock  began,  as  they 
gradually  assimilated,  blended,  and  became  one. 

And  this  is  the  key  to  nature  in  England:  'tis 
granite  grown  ripe  and  mellow  and  issuing  in  grass 
and  verdure;  'tis  aboriginal  force  and  fecundity 
become  docile  and  equable  and  mounting  toward 
higher  forms,  —  the  harsh,  bitter  rind  of  the  earth 
grown  sweet  and  edible.  There  is  such  body  and 
substance  in  the  color  and  presence  of  things  that 
one  thinks  the  very  roots  of  the  grass  must  go 
deeper  than  usual.  The  crude,  the  raw,  the  dis- 
cordant, where  are  they  ?  It  seems  a  comparatively 
short  and  easy  step  from  nature  to  the  canvas  or  to 
the  poem  in  this  cozy  land.  Nothing  need  be 
added;  the  idealization  has  already  taken  place. 
The  Old  World  is  deeply  covered  with  a  kind  of 
human  leaf-mould,  while  the  New  is  for  the  most 
part  yet  raw,  undigested  hard-pan.  This  is  why 
these  scenes  haunt  one  like  a  memory.  One  seems 
to  have  youthful  associations  with  every  field  and 
hilltop  he  looks  upon.  The  complete  humanization 
of  nature  has  taken  place.  The  soil  has  been  mixed 
with  human  thought  and  substance.  These  fields 
have   been  alternately  Celt,   Eoman,   British,   Nor- 


28  FRESH   FIELDS 

man,  Saxon;  they  have  moved  and  walked  and 
talked  and  loved  and  suifered;  hence  one  feels  kin- 
dred to  them  and  at  home  among  them.  The 
mother-land,  indeed.  Every  foot  of  its  soil  has 
given  birth  to  a  human  being  and  grown  tender  and 
conscious  with  time. 

England  is  like  a  seat  by  the  chimney-corner, 
and  is  as  redolent  of  human  occupancy  and  domes- 
ticity. It  has  the  island  coziness  and  unity,  and 
the  island  simplicity  as  opposed  to  the  continental 
diversity  of  forms.  It  is  all  one  neighborhood;  a 
friendly  and  familiar  air  is  over  all.  It  satisfies  to 
the  full  one's  utmost  craving  for  the  home-like  and 
for  the  fruits  of  affectionate  occuiDation  of  the  soil. 
It  does  not  satisfy  one's  craving  for  the  wild,  the 
savage,  the  aboriginal,  what  our  poet  describes 
as  his 

''Hungering,   hungering,   hungering    for    primal    energies    and 
Nature's  dauntlessness." 

But  probably  in  the  matter  of  natural  scenes  we 
hunger  most  for  that  which  we  most  do  feed  upon. 
At  any  rate,  I  can  conceive  that  one  might  be  easily 
contented  with  what  the  English  landscape  affords 
him. 

The  whole  physiognomy  of  the  land  bespeaks 
the  action  of  slow,  uniform,  conservative  agencies. 
There  is  an  elemental  composure  and  moderation  in 
things  that  leave  their  mark  everywhere,  —  a  sort 
of  elemental  sweetness  and  docility  that  are  a  sur- 
prise and  a  charm.  One  does  not  forget  that  the 
evolution  of  man  probably  occurred  in  this  hcmi- 


NATURE    IN    ENGLAND  29 

sphere,  and  time  would  seem  to  have  proved  that 
there  is  something  here  more  favorable  to  his  per- 
petuity and  longevity. 

The  dominant  impression  of  the  English  land- 
scape is  repose.  Never  was  such  a  restful  land  to 
the  eye,  especially  to  the  American  eye,  sated  as  it 
is  very  apt  to  be  with  the  mingled  squalor  and 
splendor  of  its  own  landscape,  its  violent  contrasts, 
and  general  spirit  of  unrest.  But  the  completeness 
and  composure  of  this  outdoor  nature  is  like  a 
dream.  It  is  like  the  poise  of  the  tide  at  its  full: 
every  hurt  of  the  world  is  healed,  every  shore  cov- 
ered, every  unsightly  spot  is  hidden.  The  circle  of 
the  horizon  is  brimming  with  the  green  equable 
flood.  (I  did  not  see  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire  nor 
the  wolds  of  York.)  This  look  of  repose  is  partly 
the  result  of  the  maturity  and  ripeness  brought 
about  by  time  and  ages  of  patient  and  thorough  hus- 
bandry, and  partly  the  result  of  the  gentle,  conti- 
nent spirit  of  Natiu'e  herself.  She  is  contented,  she 
is  happily  wedded,  she  is  well  clothed  and  fed. 
Her  offspring  swarm  about  her,  her  paths  have 
fallen  in  pleasant  places.  The  foliage  of  the  trees, 
how  dense  and  massive!  The  turf  of  the  fields, 
how  thick  and  uniform !  The  streams  and  rivers, 
how  placid  and  full,  showing  no  devastated  margins, 
no  widespread  sandy  wastes  and  unsightly  heaps  of 
drift  bowlders!  To  the  returned  traveler  the  foli- 
age of  the  trees  and  groves  of  New  England  and 
New  York  looks  thin  and  disheveled  when  compared 
with  the  foliage  he  has  just  left.      This  effect  is 


30  FRESH    FIELDS 

probably  owing  to  our  cruder  soil  and  sharper  cli- 
mate. The  aspect  of  our  trees  in  midsummer  is  as 
if  the  hair  of  their  heads  stood  on  end ;  the  woods 
have  a  wild,  frightened  look,  or  as  if  they  were  just 
recovering  from  a  debauch.  In  our  intense  light 
and  heat,  the  leaves,  instead  of  spreading  them- 
selves full  to  the  sun  and  crowding  out  upon  the 
ends  of  the  branches  as  they  do  in  England,  retreat, 
as  it  were,  hide  behind  each  other,  stand  edgew^ise, 
perpendicular,  or  at  any  angle,  to  avoid  the  direct 
rays.  In  Britain,  from  the  slow,  dripping  rains  and 
the  excessive  moisture,  the  leaves  of  the  trees  droop 
more,  and  the  branches  are  more  pendent.  The 
rays  of  light  are  fewer  and  feebler,  and  the  foliage 
disposes  itself  so  as  to  catch  them  all,  and  thus 
presents  a  fuller  and  broader  surface  to  the  eye  of 
the  beholder.  The  leaves  are  massed  upon  the 
outer  ends  of  the  branches,  while  the  interior  of 
the  tree  is  comparatively  leafless.  The  European 
plane-tree  is  like  a  tent.  The  foliage  is  all  on  the 
outside.  The  bird  voices  in  it  reverberate  as  in 
a  chamber. 

"  The  pillar' d  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores," 

says  Tennyson.  At  a  little  distance,  it  has  the 
mass  and  solidity  of  a  rock.  The  same  is  true  of 
the  European  maple,  and  when  this  tree  is  grown 
on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic  it  keejDS  up  its  Old 
AYorld  habits.  I  have  for  several  years  taken  note 
of  a  few  of  them  growing  in  a  park  near  my  home. 
They  have  less  grace  and  delicacy  of  outline  than 
our  native  maj)le,    but  present  a  darker  and  more 


NATURE   IN   ENGLAND  31 

solid  mass  of  foliaga  The  leaves  are  larger  and  less 
feathery,  and  are  crowded  to  the  periphery  of  the 
tree.  Nearly  every  summer  one  of  the  trees,  which 
is  most  exposed,  gets  the  leaves  on  one  side  badly 
scorched.  When  the  foliage  begins  to  turn  in  the 
fall,  the  trees  appear  as  if  they  had  been  lightly 
and  hastily  brushed  with  gold.  The  outer  edges  of 
the  branches  become  a  light  yellow,  while,  a  little 
deeper,  the  body  of  the  foliage  is  still  green.  It  is 
this  solid  and  sculpturesque  character  of  the  English 
foliage  that  so  fills  the  eye  of  the  artist.  The 
feathery,  formless,  indefinite,  not  to  say  thin,  aspect 
of  our  leafage  is  much  less  easy  to  paint,  and  much 
less  pleasing  when  painted. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  turf  in  the  fields  and 
upon  the  hills.  The  sward  with  us,  even  in  the 
oldest  meadows,  will  wear  more  or  less  a  ragged, 
uneven  aspect.  The  frost  heaves  it,  the  sun  parches 
it;  it  is  thin  here  and  thick  there,  crabbed  in  one 
spot  and  fine  and  soft  in  another.  Only  by  the 
frequent  use  of  a  heavy  roller,  copious  waterings, 
and  top-dressings,  can  we  produce  sod  that  ap- 
proaches in  beauty  even  that  of  the  elevated  sheep 
ranges  in  England  and  Scotland. 

The  greater  activity  and  abundance  of  the  earth- 
worm, as  disclosed  by  Darwin,  probably  has  much 
to  do  with  the  smoothness  and  fatness  of  those 
.  fields  when  contrasted  with  our  own.  This  little  yet 
mighty  engine  is  much  less  instrumental  in  leaven- 
ing and  leveling  the  soil  in  New  England  than  in 
Old.      The  greater  humidity  of  the  mother  country, 


32  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  deep  clayey  soil,  its  fattening  for  ages  by 
human  occupancy,  the  abundance  of  food,  the  milder 
climate,  etc.,  are  all  favorable  to  the  life  and  activ- 
ity of  the  earthworm.  Indeed,  according  to  Dar- 
win, the  gardener  that  has  made  England  a  garden 
is  none  other  than  this  little  obscure  creature.  It 
plows,  drains,  airs,  pulverizes,  fertilizes,  and  levels. 
It  cannot  transport  rocks  and  stone,  but  it  can  bury 
them;  it  cannot  remove  the  ancient  walls  and  pave- 
ments, but  it  can  undermine  them  and  deposit  its 
rich  castings  above  them.  On  each  acre  of  land, 
he  says,  "in  many  parts  of  England,  a  weight  of 
more  than  ten  tons  of  dry  earth  annually  passes 
through  their  bodies  and  is  brought  to  the  surface." 
"When  we  behold  a  wide,  turf-covered  expanse," 
he  further  observes,  "we  should  remember  that  its 
smoothness,  on  which  so  much  of  its  beauty  de- 
pends, is  mainly  due  to  all  the  inequalities  having 
been  slowly  leveled  by  worms." 

The  small  part  which  worms  play  in  this  direc- 
tion in  our  landscape  is,  I  am  convinced,  more  than 
neutralized  by  our  violent  or  disrupting  climate; 
but  England  looks  like  the  product  of  some  such 
gentle,  tireless,  and  beneficent  agent.  I  have  re- 
ferred to  that  effect  in  the  face  of  the  landscape  as 
if  the  soil  had  snowed  down;  it  seems  the  snow 
came  from  the  other  direction,  namely,  from  below, 
but  was  deposited  with  equal  gentleness  and  uni- 
formity. 

The  repose  and  equipoise  of  nature  of  which  I 
have  spoken  appears  in  the  fields  of  grain  no  less 


NATURE    IN    ENGLAND-  33 

than  in  the  turf  and  foliage.  One  may  see  vast 
stretches  of  wheat,  oats,  barley,  beans,  etc.,  as  uni- 
form as  the  surface  of  a  lake,  every  stalk  of  grain 
or  bean  the  size  and  height  of  every  other  stalk. 
This,  of  course,  means  good  husbandry;  it  means 
a  mild,  even-tempered  nature  back  of  it,  also. 
Then  the  repose  of  the  English  landscape  is  en- 
hanced, rather  than  marred,  by  the  part  man  has 
played  in  it.  How  those  old  arched  bridges  rest 
above  the  placid  streams;  how  easily  they  conduct 
the  trim,  perfect  highways  over  them!  Where 
the  foot  finds  an  easy  way,  the  eye  finds  the  same; 
where  the  body  finds  harmony,  the  mind  finds  har- 
mony. Those  ivy-covered  walls  and  ruins,  those 
finished  fields,  those  rounded  hedge-rows,  those 
embowered  cottages,  and  that  gray,  massive  archi- 
tecture, all  contribute  to  the  harmony  and  to  the 
repose  of  the  landscape.  Perhaps  in  no  other 
country  are  the  grazing  herds  so  much  at  ease. 
One's  first  impression,  on  seeing  British  fields  in 
spring  or  summer,  is  that  the  cattle  and  sheep  have 
all  broken  into  the  meadow  and  have  not  yet  been 
discovered  by  the  farmer;  they  have  taken  their 
fill,  and  are  now  reposing  upon  the  grass  or  dream- 
ing under  the  trees.  But  you  presently  perceive 
that  it  is  all  meadow  or  meadow-like;  that  there 
are  no  wild,  weedy,  or  barren  pastures  about  which 
the  herds  toil;  but  that  they  are  in  grass  up  to 
their  eyes  everywhere.  Hence  their  contentment; 
hence  another  element  of  repose  in  the  landscape. 
The  softness  and  humidity  of  the  English  climate 


34  •         FRESH   FIELDS 

act  in  two  ways  in  promoting  that  marvelous  green- 
ness of  the  land,  namely,  by  growth  and  by  decay. 
As  the  grass  springs  quickly,  so  its  matured  stalk 
or  dry  leaf  decays  quickly.  No  field  growths  are 
desiccated  and  preserved  as  with  us;  there  are  no 
dried  stubble  and  seared  leaves  remaining  over  the 
winter  to  mar  and  obscure  the  verdancy  of  spring. 
Every  dead  thing  is  quickly  converted  back  to  vege- 
table mould.  In  the  woods,  in  May,  it  is  difficult 
to  find  any  of  the  dry  leaves  of  the  previous 
autumn;  in  the  fields  and  copses  and  along  the 
highways,  no  stalk  of  weed  or  grass  remains;  while 
our  wild,  uplying  pastures  and  mountain-tops  always 
present  a  more  or  less  brown  and  seared  appearance 
from  the  dried  and  bleached  stalks  of  the  growth  of 
the  previous  year,  through  which  the  fresh  spring- 
ing grass  is  scarcely  visible.  Where  rain  falls  on 
nearly  three  hundred  days  in  the  year,  as  in  the 
British  islands,  the  conversion  of  the  mould  into 
grass,  and  vice  versa,  takes  place  very  rapidly. 


n 

ENGLISH  WOODS:  A  CONTRAST 

/^NE  cannot  Avell  overpraise  the  rural  and  pas- 
^-^  toral  beauty  of  England  —  the  beauty  of  her 
fields,  parks,  downs,  holms.  In  England  you  shall 
see  at  its  full  that  of  which  you  catch  only  glimpses 
in  this  country,  the  broad,  beaming,  hospitable 
beauty  of  a  perfectly  cultivated  landscape.  Ind.eed, 
to  see  England  is  to  take  one's  fill  of  the  orderly, 
the  permanent,  the  well-kept  in  the  works  of  man, 
and  of  the  continent,  the  beneficent,  the  uniform, 
in  the  works  of  nature.  It  is  to  see  the  most  per- 
fect bit  of  garden  lawn  extended  till  it  covers  an 
empire;  it  is  to  see  the  history  of  two  thousand 
years  written  in  grass  and  verdure,  and  in  the  lines 
of  the  landscape;  a  continent  concentrated  into  a 
state,  the  deserts  and  waste  places  left  out,  every 
rood  of  it  swarming  with  life;  the  pith  and  marrow 
of  wide  tracts  compacted  into  narrow  fields  and 
recruited  and  forwarded  by  the  most  vigilant  hus- 
bandry. Those  fields  look  stall-fed,  those  cattle 
beam  contentment,  those  rivers  have  never  left 
their  banks;  those  mountains  are  the  paradise  of 
shepherds;  those  open  forest  glades,  half  sylvan, 
half  pastoral,  clean,  stately,  full  of  long  vistas  and 


36  FRESH   FIELDS 

cathedral- like  aisles,  —  where  else  can  one  find 
beauty  like  that?  The  wild  and  the  savage  flee 
away.  The  rocks  pull  the  green  turf  over  them 
like  coverlids;  the  hills  are  plump  with  vegetable 
mould,  and  when  they  bend  this  way  or  that,  their 
sides  are  wrinkled  and  dimpled  like  the  forms  of 
fatted  sheep.  And  fatted  they  are;  not  merely  by 
the  care  of  man,  but  by  the  elements  themselves; 
the  sky  rains  fertility  upon  them;  there  is  no  wear 
and  tear  as  with  our  alternately  flooded,  parched, 
and  frozen  hilltops;  the  soil  accumulates,  the  mould 
deepens;  the  matted  turf  binds  it  and  yearly  adds 
to  it. 

All  this  is  not  simply  because  man  is  or  has 
been  so  potent  in  the  landscape  (this  is  but  half  the 
truth),  but  because  the  very  mood  and  humor  of 
Nature  herself  is  domestic  and  human.  She  seems 
to  have  grown  up  with  man  and  taken  on  his  look 
and  ways.  Her  spirit  is  that  of  the  full,  placid 
stream  that  you  may  lead  through  your  garden  or 
conduct  by  your  doorstep  without  other  danger  than 
a  wet  sill  or  a  soaked  flower-plot,  at  rare  intervals. 
It  is  the  opulent  nature  of  the  southern  seas, 
brought  by  the  Gulf  Stream,  and  reproduced  and 
perpetuated  here  under  these  cool  northern  skies, 
the  fangs  and  the  poison  taken  out;  full,  but  no 
longer  feverish;  lusty,  but  no  longer  lewd. 

Yet  there  is  a  certain  beauty  of  nature  to  be  had 
in  much  fuller  measure  in  our  own  country  than  in 
England,  —  the  beauty  of  the  wild,  the  aboriginal, 
—  the  beauty  of  primitive  forests,  —  the  beauty  of 


ENGLISH   WOODS  :     A    CONTRAST  37 

lichen -covered  rocks  and  ledges.  The  lichen  is  one 
of  the  lowest  and  humblest  forms  of  vegetable 
growth,  but  think  how  much  it  adds  to  the  beauty 
of  all  our  wild  scenery,  giving  to  our  mountain 
walls  and  drift  bowlders  the  softest  and  most  pleas- 
ing tints.  The  rocky  escarpments  of  New  York 
and  Xew  England  hills  are  frescoed  by  Time  him- 
self, painted  as  with  the  brush  of  the  eternal  ele- 
ments. But  the  lichen  is  much  less  conspicuous  in 
England,  and  plays  no  such  part  in  her  natural 
scenery.  The  climate  is  too  damp.  The  rocks  in 
Wales  and  Northumberland  and  in  Scotland  are 
dark  and  cold  and  unattractive.  The  trees  in  the 
woods  do  not  wear  the  mottled  suit  of  soft  gray 
ours  do.  The  bark  of  the  British  beech  is  smooth 
and  close-fitting,  and  often  tinged  with  a  green 
mould.  The  Scotch  pine  is  clad  as  in  a  ragged  suit 
of  leather.  Nature  uses  mosses  instead  of  lichens. 
The  old  walls  and  housetops  are  covered  with  moss 
—  a  higher  form  of  vegetation  than  lichens.  Its 
decay  soon  accumulates  a  little  soil  or  vegetable 
mould,  which  presently  supports  flowering  plants. 

Neither  are  there  any  rocks  in  England  worth 
mentioning;  no  granite  bowlders,  no  fern-decked  or 
moss -covered  fragments  scattered  through  the  woods, 
as  with  us.  They  have  all  been  used  up  for  build- 
ing purposes,  or  for  road-making,  or  else  have  quite 
dissolved  in  the  humid  climate.  I  saw  rocks  in 
Wales,  quite  a  profusion  of  them  in  the  pass  of 
Llanberis,  but  they  were  tame  indeed  in  comparison 
with  such  rock  scenery  as  that  say  at  Lake  Mohunk, 


38  FRESH   FIELDS 

in  the  Shawangunk  range  in  New  York.  There 
are  passes  in  the  Catskills  that  for  the  grandeur  of 
wildness  and  savageness  far  surpass  anything  the 
Welsh  mountains  have  to  show.  Then  for  exqui- 
site and  thrilling  beauty,  probably  one  of  our  mot- 
tled rocky  walls  with  the  dicentra  blooming  from 
little  niches  and  shelves  in  April,  and  the  colum- 
bine thrusting  out  from  seams  and  crevices  clusters 
of  its  orange  bells  in  May,  with  ferns  and  mosses 
clinging  here  and  there,  and  the  woodbine  tracing 
a  delicate  green  line  across  its  face,  cannot  be 
matched  anywhere  in  the  world. 

Then,  in  our  woods,  apart  from  their  treasures 
of  rocks,  there  is  a  certain  beauty  and  purity  un- 
known in  England,  a  certain  delicacy  and  sw^eetness, 
and  charm  of  unsophisticated  nature,  that  are  native 
to  our  forests. 

The  pastoral  or  field  life  of  nature  in  England  is 
so  rank  and  full,  that  no  woods  or  forests  that  I 
was  able  to  find  could  hold  their  own  against  it 
for  a  moment.  It  flooded  them  like  a  tide.  The 
grass  grows  luxuriantly  in  the  thick  woods,  and 
where  the  grass  fails,  the  coarse  bracken  takes  its 
place.  There  was  no  wood  spirit,  no  wild  wood 
air.  Our  forests  shut  their  doors  against  the  fields ; 
they  shut  out  the  strong  light  and  the  heat.  Where 
the  land  has  been  long  cleared,  the  woods  put  out 
a  screen  of  low  branches,  or  else  a  brushy  growth 
starts  up  along  their  borders  that  guards  and  pro- 
tects their  privacy.  Lift  or  part  away  these  branches, 
and  step  inside,  and  you  are  in  another  world;  new 


ENGLISH   WOODS  :     A   CONTRAST  39 

l^lants,  new  flowers,  new  birds,  new  animals,  new 
insects,  new  sounds,  new  odors ;  in  fact,  an  entirely 
different  atmosphere  and  presence.  Dry  leaves  cover 
the  ground,  delicate  ferns  and  mosses  drape  the 
rocks,  shy,  delicate  flowers  gleam  out  here  and 
there,  the  slender  brown  wood-frog  leaps  nimbly 
away  from  your  feet,  the  little  red  newt  fills  its 
infantile  pipe,  or  hides  under  a  leaf,  the  ruffed 
grouse  bursts  up  before  you,  the  gray  squirrel  leaps 
from  tree  to  tree,  the  wood  pewee  utters  its  plain- 
tive cry,  the  little  warblers  lisp  and  dart  amid  the 
branches,  and  sooner  or  later  the  mosquito  demands 
his  fee.  Our  woods  suggest  new  arts,  new  pleas- 
ures, a  new  mode  of  life.  English  parks  and 
groves,  when  the  sun  shines,  suggest  a  perpetual 
picnic,  or  Maying  party;  but  no  one,  I  imagine, 
thinks  of  camping  out  in  English  woods.  The 
constant  rains,  the  darkened  skies,  the  low  tempera- 
ture, make  the  interior  of  a  forest  as  uninviting  as 
an  underground  passage.  I  wondered  what  became 
of  the  dry  leaves  that  are  such  a  feature  and  give 
out  such  a  pleasing  odor  in  our  woods.  They  are 
probably  raked  up  and  carried  away ;  or,  if  left  upon 
the  ground,  are  quickly  resolved  into  mould  by  the 
damp  climate. 

While  in  Scotland  I  explored  a  large  tract  of 
woodland,  mainly  of  Scotch  fir,  that  covers  a  hill 
near  Ecclefechan,  but  it  was  grassy  and  uninviting. 
In  one  of  the  parks  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  I 
found  a  deep  wooded  gorge  through  which  flowed 
the  river  Avon   (I  saw  four  rivers  of  this  name  in 


40  FRESH   FIELDS 

Great  Britain),  a  branch  of  the  Clyde,  —  a  dark, 
rock-paved  stream,  the  color  of  brown  stout.  It 
was  the  wildest  bit  of  forest  scenery  I  saw  any- 
where. I  almost  imagined  myself  on  the  head- 
waters of  the  Hudson  or  the  Penobscot.  The  still- 
ness, the  solitude,  the  wild  boiling  waters,  were 
impressive;  but  the  woods  had  no  charm;  there 
were  no  flowers,  no  birds;  the  sylvan  folk  had 
moved  away  long  ago,  and  their  house  was  cold  and 
inhospitable.  I  sat  a  half-hour  in  their  dark  nettle- 
grown  halls  by  the  verge  of  the  creek,  to  see  if  they 
were  stirring  anywhere,  but  they  were  not.  I  did, 
indeed,  hear  part  of  a  wren's  song,  and  the  call  of 
the  sandpiper;  but  that  was  all.  Not  one  purely 
wood  voice  or  sound  or  odor.  But  looking  into  the 
air  a  few  yards  below  me,  there  leapt  one  of  those 
matchless  stone  bridges,  clearing  the  profound  gulf 
and  carrying  the  road  over  as  securely  as  if  upon 
the  geological  strata.  It  was  the  bow  of  art  and 
civilization  set  against  nature's  wildness.  In  the 
woods  beyond,  I  came  suddenly  upon  the  ruins  of 
an  old  castle,  with  great  trees  growing  out  of  it, 
and  rabbits  burrowing  beneath  it.  One  learns  that 
it  takes  more  than  a  collection  of  trees  to  make  a 
forest,  as  we  know  it  in  this  country.  Unless  they 
house  that  spirit  of  wildness  and  purity  like  a 
temple,  they  fail  to  satisfy.  In  walking  to  Sel- 
borne,  I  skirted  Wolmer  Forest,  but  it  had  an  unin- 
viting look.  The  Hanger  on  the  hill  above  Sel- 
borne,  which  remains  nearly  as  it  was  in  White's 
time,  —  a   thrifty  forest  of  beeches,  —  I  explored, 


ENGLISH  WOODS:  A  CONTRAST       41 

but  found  it  like  the  others,  without  any  distinctive 
woodsy  attraction  —  only  so  much  soil  covered  with 
dripping  beeches,  too  dense  for  a  park  and  too  tame 
for  a  forest.      The  soil  is  a  greasy,    slippery  clay, 
and  down  the  steepest  part  of  the  hill,    amid  the 
trees,   the  boys  have  a  slide  that  serves  them   for 
summer  "coastings."     Hardly  a  leaf,  hardly  a  twig 
or  branch,  to  be  found.      In  White's  time,  the  poor 
people  used  to  pick  up  the  sticks  the  crows  dropped 
in  building  their   nests,    and   they  probably  do   so 
yet.      When  one  comes  upon  the  glades  beyond  the 
Hanger,  the  mingling  of  groves  and  grassy  common, 
the  eye  is  fully  content.      The  beech,  which  is  the 
prevailing  tree  here,  as  it  is  in  many  other  parts  of 
England,    is  a  much  finer  tree  than  the  American 
beech.      The  deep  limestone   soil   seems   especially 
adapted  to  it.      It  grows  as  large  as  our  elm,  with 
much  the  same  manner  of  branching.      The  trunk 
is   not   patched  and  mottled  with  gray,    like  ours, 
but  is  often  tinged  with  a  fine  deep  green  mould. 
The  beeches  that  stand  across  the  road  in  front  of 
Wordsworth's  house,   at  Rydal  Mount,   have  boles 
nearly  as  green  as  the  surrounding  hills.      The  bark 
of  this  tree  is  smooth  and  close-fitting,  and  shows 
that  muscular,  athletic  character  of  the  tree  beneath 
it  which    justifies    Spenser's   phrase,    "the  warlike 
beech."     These  beeches  develop  finely  in  the  open, 
and   make   superb   shade-trees  along   the   highway. 
All  the  great  historical  forests  of  England  —  Shrews- 
bury Forest,  the  Forest  of  Dean,  New  Forest,  etc. 
■ —  have  practically  disappeared.     Remnants  of  them 


42  FKESH   FIELDS 

remain  here  and  there,  but  the  country  they  once 
occupied  is  now  essentially  pastoral. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  there  is  little  or  no  love  of 
woods  as  such  in  English  poetry ;  no  fond  mention 
of  them,  and  dwelling  upon  them.  The  muse  of 
Britain's  rural  poetry  has  none  of  the  wide-eyedness 
and  furtiveness  of  the  sylvan  creatures;  she  is 
rather  a  gentle,  wholesome,  slightly  stupid  divinity 
of  the  fields.      Milton  sings  the  praises  of 

"Arched  walks  of  twiliglit  groves." 
But  his  wood  is  a  "drear  wood," 

"  The  iioddmg  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and. wandering  passenger." 

Again :  — 

"  Very  desolation  dwells 
By  grots  and  caverns  shagg'd  with  horrid  shade." 

Shakespeare  refers  to  the  "ruthless,  vast,  and  hor- 
rid wood,"  —  a  fit  place  for  robbery,  rapine,  and 
murder.  Indeed,  English  poetry  is  pretty  w^ell 
colored  with  the  memory  of  the  time  when  the 
woods  were  the  hiding-places  of  robbers  and  out- 
laws, and  were  the  scenes  of  all  manner  of  dark 
deeds.  The  only  thing  I  recall  in  Shakespeare  that 
gives  a  faint  whiif  of  our  forest  life  occurs  in  "All 's 
Well  That  Ends  Well,"  where  the  clown  says  to 
Lafeu,  "I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,  that  always 
loved  a  great  fire."  That  great  fire  is  American; 
wood  is  too  scarce  in  Europe.  Francis  Higginson 
wrote  in  1630:  "New  England  may  boast  of  the 
element  of  fire  more  than  all  the  rest;  for  all 
Europe  is  not  able  to  afford  to  make  so  great  fires 


ENGLISH   WOODS:     A   CONTRAST  43 

as  New  England.  A  poor  servant,  that  is  to  pos- 
sess but  fifty  acres,  may  afford  to  give  more  wood 
for  fire,  as  good  as  the  world  yields,  than  many 
noblemen  in  England."  In  many  parts  of  New 
England,  New  York,  and  Pennsylvania,  the  same 
royal  fires  may  still  be  indulged  in.  In  the  chief 
nature-poet  of  England,  Wordsworth,  there  is  no 
line  that  has  the  subtle  aroma  of  the  deep  woods. 
After  seeing  his  country,  one  can  recognize  its  fea- 
tures, its  spirit,  all  through  his  poems  —  its  impres- 
sive solitudes,  its  lonely  tarns,  its  silent  fells,  its 
green  dales,  its  voiceful  waterfalls;  but  there  are  no 
woods  there  to  speak  of;  the  mountains  appear  to 
have  always  been  treeless,  and  the  poet's  muse  has 
never  felt  the  spell  of  this  phase  of  nature  —  the 
mystery  and  attraction  of  the  indoors  of  aboriginal 
wildness.  Likewise  in  Tennyson  there  is  the  breath 
of  the  wold,  but  not  of  the  woods. 

Among  our  own  poets,  two  at  least  of  the  more 
eminent  have  listened  to  the  siren  of  our  primitive 
woods.  I  refer  to  Bryant  and  Emerson.  Though 
so  different,  there  is  an  Indian's  love  of  forests  and 
forest-solitudes  in  them  both.  Neither  Bryant's 
"Forest  Hymn  "  nor  Emerson's  "Woodnotes  " 
could  have  been  written  by  an  English  poet.  The 
"Woodnotes"  savor  of  our  vast  Northern  pine  for- 
ests, amid  which  one  walks  with  distended  pupil, 
and  a  boding,  alert  sense. 

"  In  unploughed  Maine  he  sought  the  lumberers'  gang, 
Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers  sprang; 
He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone ; 


44  FRESH   FIELDS 

Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 

And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

He  saw  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 

The  slight  Linruea  hang  its  twin-born  heads. 

And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of  flowers, 

Which  breathes  his  sweet  fame  through  the  northern  bowers. 

He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals, 

With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls,  — 

One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect  tree, 

Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century." 

Emerson's  muse  is  urbane,    but  it  is  that  wise 

urbanity  that  is  at  home  in  the  woods  as  well  as  in 

the  town,  and  can  make  a  garden  of  a  forest. 

"  My  garden  is  a  forest  ledge, 
Which  older  forests  bound; 
The  banks  slope  doAvn  to  the  blue  lake-edge, 
Then  plunge  to  depths  profound." 

On  the  other  hand,  we  have  no  pastoral  poetry 
in  the  English  sense,  because  we  have  no  pastoral 
nature  as  overpowering  as  the  English  have.  When 
the  muse  of  our  poetry  is  not  imitative,  it  often 
has  a  piny,  woodsy  flavor,  that  is  unknown  in  the 
older  literatures.  The  gentle  muse  of  Longfellow, 
so  civil,  so  cultivated;  yet  how  it  delighted  in  all 
legends  and  echoes  and  Arcadian  dreams,  that  date 
from  the  forest  primeval.  Thoreau  was  a  wood- 
genius  —  the  spirit  of  some  Indian  poet  or  prophet, 
graduated  at  Harvard  College,  but  never  losing  his 
taste  for  the  wild.  The  shy,  mystical  genius  of 
Hawthorne  was  never  more  at  home  than  when  in 
the  woods.  Read  the  forest-scenes  in  the  "  Scarlet 
Letter."  They  are  among  the  most  suggestive  in 
the  book. 


m 

IN  carlyle's  country 

T^N"  crossing  the  sea  a  second  time,  I  was  more 
-L  curious  to  see  Scotland  than  England,  partly 
because  I  had  had  a  good  glimpse  of  the  latter 
country  eleven  years  before,  but  largely  because  I 
had  always  preferred  the  Scotch  people  to  the  Eng- 
lish (I  had  seen  and  known  more  of  them  in  my 
youth),  and  especially  because  just  then  I  was  much 
absorbed  with  Carlyle,  and  wanted  to  see  with  my 
own  eyes  the  land  and  the  race  from  which  he 
sprang. 

I  susi3ect  anyhow  I  am  more  strongly  attracted 
by  the  Celt  than  by  the  Anglo-Saxon;  at  least  by 
the  individual  Celt.  Collectively  the  Anglo-Saxon 
is  the  more  impressive;  his  triumphs  are  greater; 
the  face  of  his  country  and  of  his  cities  is  the  more 
pleasing;  the  gift  of  empire  is  his.  Yet  there  can 
be  no  doubt,  I  think,  that  the  Celts,  at  least  the 
Scotch  Celts,  are  a  more  hearty,  cordial,  and  hospi- 
table people  than  the  English;  they  have  more 
curiosity,  more  raciness,  and  quicker  and  surer 
sympathies.  They  fuse  and  blend  readily  with 
another  people,  which  the  English  seldom  do.  In 
this  country  John  Bull  is  usually  like  a  pebble  in 
the  clay;  grind  him  and  press  him  and  bake  him  as 


46  FRESH   FIELDS 

yon  will,  he  is  still  a  pebble  —  a  hard  spot  in  the 
brick,  bnt  not  essentially  a  part  of  it. 

Every  close  view  I  got  of  the  Scotch  character 
confirmed  my  liking  for  it.  A  most  pleasant  epi- 
sode happened  to  me  down  in  Ayr.  A  young  man 
whom  I  stumbled  on  by  chance  in  a  little  wood  by 
the  Doon,  during  some  conversation  about  the  birds 
that  were  singing  around  us,  quoted  my  own  name 
to  me.  This  led  to  an  acquaintance  with  the  family 
and  with  the  parish  minister,  and  gave  a  genuine 
human  coloring  to  our  brief  sojourn  in  Burns 's 
country.  In  Glasgow  I  had  an  inside  view  of  a 
household  a  little  lower  in  the  social  scale,  but  high 
in  the  scale  of  virtues  and  excellences.  I  climbed 
up  many  winding  stone  stairs  and  found  the  family 
in  three  or  four  rooms  on  the  top  floor:  a  father, 
mother,  three  sons,  two  of  them  grown,  and  a 
daughter,  also  grown.  The  father  and  the  sons 
worked  in  an  iron  foundry  near  by.  I  broke  bread 
with  them  around  the  table  in  the  little  cluttered 
kitchen,  and  was  spared  apologies  as  much  as  if  we 
had  been  seated  at  a  banquet  in  a  baronial  hall.  A 
Bible  chapter  was  read  after  we  were  seated  at 
table,  each  member  of  the  family  reading  a  verse 
alternately.  When  the  meal  was  over,  we  went 
into  the  next  room,  where  all  joined  in  singing 
some  Scotch  songs,  mainly  from  Burns.  One  of 
the  sons  possessed  the  finest  bass  voice  I  had  ever 
listened  to.  Its  power  was  simply  tremendous, 
well  tempered  with  the  Scotch  raciness  and  tender- 
ness, too.      He  had  taken  the  first  prize  at  a  public 


IN  carlyle's  country  47 

singing  bout,  open  to  competition  to  all  of  Scot- 
land. I  told  his  mother,  who  also  had  a  voice  of 
wonderful  sweetness,  that  such  a  gift  would  make 
her  son's  fortune  anywhere,  and  found  that  the 
subject  was  the  cause  of  much  anxiety  to  her.  She 
feared  lest  it  should  be  the  ruination  of  him  —  lest 
he  should  prostitute  it  to  the  service  of  the  devil, 
as  she  put  it,  rather  than  use  it  to  the  glory  of 
God.  She  said  she  had  rather  follow  him  to  his 
grave  than  see  him  in  the  opera  or  concert  hall, 
singing  for  money.  She  wanted  him  to  stick  to 
his  work,  and  use  his  voice  only  as  a  pious  and 
sacred  gift.  When  I  asked  the  young  man  to  come 
and  sing  for  us  at  the  hotel,  the  mother  was  greatly 
troubled,  as  she  afterward  told  me,  till  she  learned 
we  were  stopping  at  a  temperance  house.  But  the 
young  man  seemed  not  at  all  inclined  to  break  away 
from  the  advice  of  his  mother.  The  other  son  had 
a  sweetheart  who  had  gone  to  America,  and  he  was 
looking  longingly  thitherward.  He  showed  me  her 
picture,  and  did  not  at  all  attempt  to  conceal  from 
me,  or  from  his  family,  his  interest  in  the  original. 
Indeed,  one  would  have  said  there  were  no  secrets 
or  concealments  in  such  a  family,  and  the  thorough 
unaifected  piety  of  the  whole  household,  mingled 
with  so  much  that  was  human  and  racy  and  canny, 
made  an  impression  upon  me  I  shall  not  soon  for- 
get. This  family  was  probably  an  exceptional  one, 
but  it  tinges  all  my  recollections  of  smoky,  tall- 
chimneyed  Glasgow. 

A  Scotch  trait  of  quite  another  sort,  and  more 


48  FRESH   FIELDS 

suggestive  of  Burns  than  of  Carlyle,  was  briefly 
summarized  in  an  item  of  statistics  which  I  used  to 
read  in  one  of  the  Edinburgh  papers  every  Monday 
morning,  namely,  that  of  the  births  registered  dur- 
ing the  previous  week,  invariably  from  ten  to  twelve 
per  cent,  were  illegitimate.  The  Scotch  —  all  classes 
of  them  —  love  Burns  deep  down  in  their  hearts, 
because  he  has  expressed  them,  from  the  roots  up, 
as  none  other  has. 

When  I  think  of  Edinburgh  the  vision  that 
comes  before  my  mind's  eye  is  of  a  city  presided 
over,  and  shone  upon  as  it  were,  by  two  green  tree- 
less heights.  Arthur's  Seat  is  like  a  great  irregular 
orb  or  half-orb,  rising  above  the  near  horizon  there 
in  the  southeast,  and  dominating  city  and  country 
with  its  unbroken  verdancy.  Its  greenness  seems 
almost  to  pervade  the  air  itself  —  a  slight  radiance 
of  grass,  there  in  the  eastern  skies.  No  description 
of  Edinburgh  I  had  read  had  prepared  me  for  the 
striking  hill  features  that  look  down  upon  it. 
There  is  a  series  of  three  hills  which  culminate  in 
Arthur's  Seat,  800  feet  high.  Upon  the  first  and 
smaller  hill  stands  the  Castle.  This  is  a  craggy, 
precipitous  rock,  on  three  sides,  but  sloping  down 
into  a  broad  gentle  expanse  toward  the  east,  where 
the  old  city  of  Edinburgh  is  mainly  built,  —  as  if 
it  had  flowed  out  of  the  Castle  as  out  of  a  fountain, 
and  spread  over  the  adjacent  ground.  Just  beyond 
the  point  where  it  ceases  rise  Salisbury  Crags  to  a 
height  of  570  feet,  turning  to  the  city  a  sheer  wall 
of  rocks  like  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson.      From 


IN   CARLYLE  S   COUNTRY  49 

its  brink  eastward  again,  the  ground  slopes  in  a 
broad  expanse  of  greensward  to  a  valley  called 
Hunter's  Bog,  where  I  thought  the  hunters  were 
very  quiet  and  very  numerous  until  I  saw  they  were 
city  riflemen  engaged  in  target  practice;  thence  it 
rises  irregularly  to  the  crest  of  Arthur's  Seat,  form- 
ing the  pastoral  eminence  and  green-shining  disk  to 
which  I  have  referred.  Along  the  crest  of  Salis- 
bury Crags  the  thick  turf  comes  to  the  edge  of  the 
precipices,  as  one  might  stretch  a  carpet.  It  is  so 
firm  and  compact  that  the  boys  cut  their  initials  in 
it,  on  a  large  scale,  with  their  jack-knives,  as  in 
the  bark  of  a  tree.  Arthur's  Seat  was  a  favorite 
walk  of  Carlyle's  during  those  gloomy  days  in  Edin- 
burgh in  1820-21.  It  was  a  mount  of  vision  to 
him,  and  he  apparently  went  there  every  day  when 

the  weather  permitted.''- 

There  was  no  road  in  Scotland  or  England  which 
I  should  have  been  so  glad  to  have  walked  over  as 
that  from  Edinburgh  to  Ecclef echan,  —  a  distance 
covered  many  times  by  the  feet  of  him  whose  birth 
and  burial  place  I  was  about  to  visit.  Carlyle  as 
a  young  man  had  walked  it  with  Edward  Irving 
(the  Scotch  say  "  travel "  when  they  mean  going 
afoot),  and  he  had  walked  it  alone,  and  as  a  lad 
with  an  elder  boy,  on  his  way  to  Edinburgh  college. 
He  says  in  his  "Reminiscences"  he  nowhere  else 
had  such  affectionate,  sad,  thoughtful,  and,  in  fact, 
interesting  and  salutary  journeys.  "No  company 
to  you  but  the  rustle  of  the  grass  under  foot,  the 
1  See  letter  to  his  brother  John,  March  9, 1821. 


50  FRESH   FIELDS 

tinkling  of  the  brook,  or  the  voices  of  innocent, 
primeval  things."  "I  have  had  days  as  clear  as 
Italy  (as  in  this  Irving  case) ;  days  moist  and  drip- 
ping, overhung  with  the  infinite  of  silent  gray,  — 
and  perhaps  the  latter  were  the  preferable,  in  cer- 
tain moods.  You  had  the  world  and  its  waste 
imbroglios  of  joy  and  woe,  of  light  and  darkness, 
to  yourself  alone.  You  could  strip  barefoot,  if  it 
suited  better;  carry  shoes  and  socks  over  shoulder, 
hung  on  your  stick;  clean  shirt  and  comb  were  in 
your  pocket;  omnia  Tnea  mecum porto.  You  lodged 
with  shepherds,  who  had  clean,  solid  cottages; 
wholesome  eggs,  milk,  oatmeal  porridge,  clean  blan- 
kets to  their  beds,  and  a  great  deal  of  human  sense 
and  unadulterated  natural  politeness." 

But  how  can  one  walk  a  hundred  miles  in  cool 
blood  without  a  companion,  especially  when  the 
trains  run  every  hour,  and  he  has  a  surplus  sover- 
eign in  his  pocket?  One  saves  time  and  consults 
his  ease  by  riding,  but  he  thereby  misses  the  real 
savor  of  the  land.  And  the  roads  of  this  compact 
little  kingdom  are  so  inviting,  like  a  hard,  smooth 
surface  covered  with  sand-paper!  How  easily  the 
foot  puts  them  behind  it !  And  the  summer  wea- 
ther, —  what  a  fresh  under-stratum  the  air  has  even 
on  the  warmest  days!  Every  breath  one  draws  has 
a  cool,  invigorating  core  to  it,  as  if  there  might  be 
some  unmelted,  or  just  melted,  frost  not  far  off. 

But  as  we  did  not  walk,  there  was  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that  the  engine  which  took  our  train  down 
from  Edinburgh  was  named  Thomas  Carlyle.      The 


IN  carlyle's  country  51 

cognomen  looked  well  on  the  toiling,  fiery-hearted, 
iron- browed  monster.  I  think  its  original  owner 
would  have  contemplated  it  with  grim  pleasure, 
especially  since  he  confesses  to  having  spent  some 
time,  once,  in  trying  to  look  up  a  shipmaster  who 
had  named  his  vessel  for  him.  Here  was  a  hero 
after  his  own  sort,  a  leader  by  the  divine  right  of 
the  expansive  power  of  steam. 

The  human  faculties  of  observation  have  not  yet 
adjusted  themselves  to  the  flying  train.  Steam  has 
clapped  wings  to  our  shoulders  without  the  power 
to  soar;  we  get  bird's-eye  views  without  the  bird's 
eyes  or  the  bird's  elevation,  distance  without  breadth, 
detail  without  mass.  If  such  speed  only  gave  us  a 
proportionate  extent  of  view,  if  this  leisure  of  the 
eye  were  only  mated  to  an  equal  leisure  in  the 
glance !  Indeed,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  how  near 
railway  traveling,  as  a  means  of  seeing  a  country, 
comes,  except  in  the  discomforts  of  it,  to  being  no 
traveling  at  all !  It  is  like  being  tied  to  your  chair, 
and  being  jolted  and  shoved  about  at  home.  The 
landscape  is  turned  topsy-turvy.  The  eye  sustains 
unnatural  relations  to  all  but  the  most  distant 
objects.  We  move  in  an  arbitrary  plane,  and  sel- 
dom is  anything  seen  from  the  proper  point,  or  with 
the  proper  sympathy  of  coordinate  position.  We 
shall  have  to  wait  for  the  air  ship  to  give  us  the 
triumph  over  space  in  which  the  eye  can  share.  Of 
this  flight  south  from  Edinburgh  on  that  briglit 
summer  day,  I  keep  only  the  most  general  impres- 
sion.    I  recall  how  clean  and  naked  the  country 


52  FEESH   FIELDS 

looked,  lifted  up  in  broad  hill-slopes,  naked  of  for- 
ests and  trees  and  weedy,  bushy  growths,  and  of 
everything  that  would  hide  or  obscure  its  unbroken 
verdancy,  —  the  one  impression  that  of  a  universe 
of  grass,  as  in  the  arctic  regions  it  might  be  one  of 
snow;  the  mountains,  pastoral  solitudes;  the  vales, 
emerald  vistas. 

Not  to  be  entirely  cheated  out  of  my  walk,  I  left 
the  train  at  Lockerbie,  a  small  Scotch  market  town, 
and  accomplished  the  remainder  of  the  journey  to 
Ecclefechan  on  foot,  a  brief  six-mile  pull.  It  was 
the  first  day  of  June;  the  afternoon  sun  was  shin- 
ing brightly.  It  was  still  the  honeymoon  of  travel 
with  me,  not  yet  two  weeks  in  the  bonnie  land ;  the 
road  was  smooth  and  clean  as  the  floor  of  a  sea 
beach,  and  firmer,  and  my  feet  devoured  the  dis- 
tance with  right  good  will.  The  first  red  clover 
had  just  bloomed,  as  I  probably  would  have  found 
it  that  day  had  I  taken  a  walk  at  home;  but,  like 
the  people  I  met,  it  had  a  ruddier  cheek  than  at 
home.  I  observed  it  on  other  occasions,  and  later 
in  the  season,  and  noted  that  it  had  more  color 
than  in  this  country,  and  held  its  bloom  longer. 
All  grains  and  grasses  ripen  slower  there  than  here, 
the  season  is  so  much  longer  and  cooler.  The  pink 
and  ruddy  tints  are  more  common  in  the  flowers 
also.  The  bloom  of  the  blackberry  is  often  of  a 
decided  pink,  and  certain  white,  umbelliferous 
plants,  like  yarrow,  have  now  and  then  a  rosy  tinge. 
The  little  white  daisy  ("gowan,"  the  Scotch  call  it) 
is  tipped  with  crimson,  foretelling  the  scarlet  pop- 


IN  carlyle's  country  53 

pies,  with  which  the  grain  fields  will  by  and  by  be 
splashed.  Prunella  (self-heal),  also,  is  of  a  deeper 
purple  than  with  us,  and  a  species  of  cranesbill, 
like  our  wild  geranium,  is  of  a  much  deeper  and 
stronger  color.  On  the  other  hand,  their  ripened 
fruits  and  foliage  of  autumn  pale  their  ineffectual 
colors  beside  our  own. 

Among  the  farm  occupations,  that  which  most 
took  my  eye,  on  this  and  on  other  occasions,  was 
the  furrowing  of  the  land  for  turnips  and  potatoes ; 
it  is  done  with  such  absolute  precision.  It  recalled 
Emerson's  statement  that  the  fields  in  this  island 
look  as  if  finished  with  a  pencil  instead  of  a  plow, 
—  a  pencil  and  a  ruler  in  this  case,  the  lines  were 
so  straight  and  so  uniform.  I  asked  a  farmer  at 
work  by  the  roadside  how  he  managed  it.  "Ah," 
said  he,  "a  Scotchman's  head  is  level."  Both 
here  and  in  England,  plowing  is  studied  like  a  fine 
art;  they  have  plowing  matches,  and  offer  prizes 
■for  the  best  furrow.  In  planting  both  potatoes  and 
turnips  the  ground  is  treated  alike,  grubbed,  plowed, 
cross-plowed,  crushed,  harrowed,  chain-harrowed, 
and  rolled.  Every  sod  and  tuft  of  uprooted  grass 
is  carefully  picked  up  by  women  and  boys,  and 
burned  or  carted  away;  leaving  the  surface  of  the 
ground  like  a  clean  sheet  of  paper,  upon  which  the 
plowman  is  now  to  inscribe  his  perfect  lines.  The 
plow  is  drawn  by  two  horses;  it  is  a  long,  heavy 
tool,  with  double  mould-boards,  and  throws  the 
earth  each  way.  In  opening  the  first  furrow  the 
plowman  is  guided  by  stakes;  having  got  this  one 


54  FRESH   FIELDS 

perfect,  it  is  used  as  the  model  for  every  subsequent 
one,  and  the  land  is  thrown  into  ridges  as  uniform 
and  faultless  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  at  one  stroke 
with  a  die,  or  cast  in  a  mould.  It  is  so  from  one 
end  of  the  island  to  the  other;  the  same  expert 
seems  to  have  done  the  Avork  in  every  plowed  and 
planted  field. 

Four  miles  from  Lockerbie  I  came  to  Mainhill, 
the  name  of  a  farm  where  the  Carlyle  family  lived 
many  years,  and  where  Carlyle  first  read  Goethe, 
"in  a  dry  ditch,"  Froude  says,  and  translated 
"Wilhelm  Meister."  The  land  drops  gently  away 
to  the  south  and  east,  opening  up  broad  views  in 
these  directions,  but  it  does  not  seem  to  be  the 
bleak  and  windy  place  Froude  describes  it.  The 
crops  looked  good,  and  the  fields  smooth  and  fer- 
tile. The  soil  is  rather  a  stubborn  clay,  nearly  the 
same  as  one  sees  everywhere.  A  sloping  field  ad- 
joining the  highway  was  being  got  ready  for  tur- 
nips. The  ridges  had  been  cast ;  the  farmer,  a  cour- 
teous but  serious  and  reserved  man,  was  sprinkling 
some  commercial  fertilizer  in  the  furrows  from  a 
bag  slung  across  his  shoulders,  while  a  boy,  with 
a  horse  and  cart,  was  depositing  stable  manure  in 
the  same  furrows,  which  a  lassie,  in  clogs  and  short 
skirts,  was  evenly  distributing  with  a  fork.  Certain 
work  in  Scotch  fields  always  seems  to  be  done  by 
women  and  girls,  —  spreading  manure,  j)^^llii"^g 
weeds,  and  picking  uj)  sods,  —  while  they  take  an 
equal  hand  with  the  men  in  the  hay  and  harvest 
fields.  • 


m  carlyle's  country  55 

The  Carlyles  were  living  on  this  farm  while  their 
son  was  teaching  school  at  Annan,  and  later  at 
Kirkcaldy  with  Irving,  and  they  supplied  him  with 
cheese,  butter,  ham,  oatmeal,  etc.,  from  their  scanty 
stores.  A  new  farmhouse  has  been  built  since 
then,  though  the  old  one  is  still  standing;  doubt- 
less the  same  Carlyle's  father  refers  to  in  a  letter 
to  his  son,  in  1817,  as  being  under  way.  The 
parish  minister  was  expected  at  INIainhill.  "Your 
mother  was  very  anxious  to  have  the  house  done 
before  he  came,  or  else  she  said  she  would  run  over 
the  hill  and  hide  herself." 

Erom  Mainhill  the  highway  descends  slowly  to 
the    village   of   Ecclefechan,    the   site   of   which   is 
marked  to  the  eye,   a  mile  or  more  away,  by  the 
spire  of  the  church  rising  up  against  a  background 
of  Scotch  firs,  which  clothe  a  hill  beyond.      I  soon 
entered  the  main  street  of  the  village,  which  in  Car- 
lyle's  youth   had   an   open   burn   or   creek   flowing 
through  the  centre  of  it.      This  has  been  covered 
over  by  some  enterprising  citizen,    and  instead   of 
a  loitering  little  burn,  crossed  by  numerous  bridges, 
the  eye  is  now  greeted  by  a  broad  expanse  of  small 
cobble-stone.      The  cottages   are  for  the  most  part 
very  humble,  and  rise  from  the  outer  edges  of  the 
pavement,  as  if  the  latter  had  been  turned  up  and 
shaped  to  make  their  walls.      The  church  is  a  hand- 
some brown  stone  structure,  of  recent  date,  and  is 
more  in  keeping  with  the  fine  fertile  country  about 
than  with  the  little  village  in  its  front.      In  the 
cemetery   back   of    it,    Carlyle    lies    buried.      As   I 


56  FRESH   FIELDS 

approached,  a  girl  sat  by  the  roadside,  near  the 
gate,  combing  her  black  locks  and  arranging  her 
toilet;  waiting,  as  it  proved,  for  her  mother  and 
brother,  who  lingered  in  the  village.  A  couple  of 
boys  were  cutting  nettles  against  the  hedge;  for  the 
pigs,  they  said,  after  the  sting  had  been  taken  out 
of  them  by  boiling.  Across  the  street  from  the 
cemetery  the  cows  of  the  villagers  Avere  grazing. 

I  must  have  thought  it  would  be  as  easy  to  dis- 
tinguish Carlyle's  grave  from  the  others  as  it  was 
to  distinguish  the  man  while  living,  or  his  fame 
when  dead;  for  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  ask  in 
what  part  of  the  inclosure  it  was  placed.  Hence, 
when  I  found  myself  inside  the  gate,  which  opens 
from  the  Annan  road  through  a  high  stone  wall,  I 
followed  the  most  worn  path  toward  a  new  and 
imposing-looking  monument  on  the  far  side  of  the 
cemetery;  and  the  edge  of  my  fine  emotion  was  a 
good  deal  dulled  against  the  marble  when  I  found 
it  bore  a  strange  name.  I  tried  others,  and  still 
others,  but  was  disappointed.  I  found  a  long  row 
of  Carlyles,  but  he  whom  I  sought  was  not  among 
them.  My  pilgrim  enthusiasm  felt  itself  needlessly 
hindered  and  chilled.  How  many  rebuffs  could 
one  stand?  Carlyle  dead,  then,  was  the  same  as 
Carlyle  living;  sure  to  take  you  down  a  peg  or  two 
when  you  came  to  lay  your  homage  at  his  feet. 

Presently  I  saw  "  Thomas  Carlyle "  on  a  big 
marble  slab  that  stood  in  a  family  inclosure.  But 
this  turned  out  to  be  the  name  of  a  nephew  of  the 
great  Thomas.      However,   I  had  struck  the   right 


IN  carlyle's  country  57 

plat  at  last;  here  were  the  Carlyles  I  was  looking 
for,  within  a  space  probably  of  eight  by  sixteen 
feet,  surrounded  by  a  high  iron  fence.  The  latest 
made  grave  was  higher  and  fuller  than  the  rest,  but 
it  had  no  stone  or  mark  of  any  kind  to  distinguish 
it.  Since  my  visit,  I  believe,  a  stone  or  monument 
of  some  kind  has  been  put  up.  A  few  daisies  and 
the  pretty  blue-eyed  speedwell  were  growing  amid 
the  grass  upon  it.  The  great  man  lies  with  his 
head  toward  the  south  or  southwest,  with  his 
mother,  sister,  and  father  to  the  right  of  him,  and' 
his  brother  John  to  the  left.  I  was  glad  to  learn 
that  the  high  iron  fence  was  not  his  own  suggestion. 
His  father  had  put  it  around  the  family  plat  in  his 
lifetime.  Carlyle  would  have  liked  to  have  it  cut 
down  about  half  way.  The  whole  look  of  this 
cemetery,  except  in  the  extraordinary  size  of  the 
headstones,  was  quite  American,  it  being  back  of 
the  church,  and  separated  from  it,  a  kind  of  mor- 
tuary garden,  instead  of  surrounding  it  and  running 
under  it,  as  is  the  case  with  the  older  churches.  I 
noted  here,  as  I  did  elsewhere,  that  the  custom 
prevails  of  putting  the  trade  or  occupation  of  the 
deceased  upon  his  stone:  So-and-So,  mason,  or 
tailor,  or  carpenter,  or  farmer,  etc. 

A  young  man  and  his  wife  were  working  in  a 
nursery  of  young  trees,  a  few  paces  from  the  graves, 
and  I  conversed  with  them  through  a  thin  place  in 
the  hedge.  They  said  they  had  seen  Carlyle  many 
times,  and  seemed  to  hold  him  in  proper  esteem 
and  reverence.     The  young  man  had  seen  him  come 


58  FRESH   FIELDS 

in  summer  and  stand,  with  uncovered  head,  beside 
the  graves  of  his  father  and  mother.  "And  long 
and  reverently  did  he  remain  there,  too,"  said  the 
young  gardener.  I  learned  this  was  Carlyle's  inva- 
riable custom :  every  summer  did  he  make  a  pilgrim- 
age to  this  spot,  and  with  bared  head  linger  beside 
^isihese  graves.  The  last  time  he  came,  which  was 
a  couple  of  years  before  he  died,  he  was  so  feeble 
that  two  persons  sustained  him  while  he  walked 
into  the  cemetery.  This  observance  recalls  a  pas- 
sage from  his  "Past  and  Present."  Speaking  of 
the  religious  custom  of  the  Emperor  of  China,  he 
says,  "He  and  his  three  hundred  millions  (it  is 
their  chief  punctuality)  visit  yearly  the  Tombs  of 
their  Fathers;  each  man  the  Tomb  of  his  Father 
and  his  Mother;  alone  there  in  silence  with  what 
of  '  worship '  or  of  other  thought  there  may  be, 
pauses  solemnly  each  man;  the  divine  Skies  all 
silent  over  him ;  the  divine  Graves,  and  this  divin- 
est  Grave,  all  silent  under  him;  the  pulsings  of  his 
own  soul,  if  he  have  any  soul,  alone  audible.  Truly 
it  may  be  a  kind  of  worship !  Truly,  if  a  man  can- 
not get  some  glimpse  into  the  Eternities,  looking 
through  this  portal,  — through  what  other  need  he 
try  it?" 

Carlyle's  reverence  and  affection  for  his  kindred 
were  among  his  most  beautiful  traits,  and  make  up 
in  some  measure  for  the  contempt  he  felt  toward 
the  rest  of  mankind.  The  family  stamp  was  never 
more  strongly  set  upon  a  man,  and  no  family  ever 
had  a  more  original,  deeply  cut  pattern  than  that  of 


IN  carlyle's  country  59 

the  Carlyles.  Generally,  in  great  men  who  emerge 
from  obscure  peasant  homes,  the  genius  of  the  family 
takes  an  enormous  leap,  or  is  completely  metamor- 
phosed; but  Carlyle  keeps  all  the  paternal  linea- 
ments unfaded;  he  is  his  father  and  his  mother, 
touched  to  finer  issues.  That  wonderful  speech  of 
his  sire,  which  all  who  knew  him  feared,  has  lost' 
nothing  in  the  son,  but  is  tremendously  augmented, 
and  cuts  like  a  Damascus  sword,  or  crushes  like  a 
sledge-hammer.  The  strongest  and  finest  paternal 
traits  have  survived  in  him.  Indeed,  a  little  con- 
genital rill  seems  to  have  come  all  the  way  down 
from  the  old  vikings.  Carlyle  is  not  merely  Scotch ; 
he  is  Norselandic.  There  is  a  marked  Scandinavian 
flavor  in  him;  a  touch,  or  more  than  a  touch,  of 
the  rude,  brawling,  bullying,  hard-hitting,  wrest- 
ling viking  times.  The  hammer  of  Thor  antedates 
the  hammer  of  his  stone-mason  sire  in  him.  He  is 
Scotland,  past  and  present,  moral  and  physical. 
John  Knox  and  the  Covenanters  survive  in  him: 
witness  his  religious  zeal,  his  depth  and  solemnity 
of  conviction,  his  strugglings  and  agonizings,  his 
"conversion."  Ossian  survives  in  him:  behold  that 
melancholy  retrospect,  that  gloom,  that  melodious 
wail.  And  especially,  as  I  have  said,  do  his  imme- 
diate ancestors  survive  in  him,  —  his  sturdy,  toil- 
ing, fiery-tongued,  clannish  yeoman  progenitors: 
all  are  summed  up  here ;  this  is  the  net  result  avail- 
able for  literature  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

Carlyle's  heart  was  always  here  in  Scotland.      A 
vague,  yearning  homesickness  seemed  ever  to  pos- 


60  FRESH   FIELDS 

sess  him.  "The  Hill  I  first  saw  the  Sun  rise 
over,"  he  says  in  "Past  and  Present,"  "when  the 
Sun  and  I  and  all  things  were  yet  in  their  auroral 
hour,  who  can  divorce  me  from  it?  Mystic,  deep 
as  the  world's  centre,  are  the  roots  I  have  struck 
into  my  Native  Soil;  no  tree  that  grows  is  rooted 
so. "  How  that  mournful  retrospective  glance  haunts 
hie  pages!  His  race,  generation  upon  generation, 
had  toiled  and  wrought  here  amid  the  lonely  moors, 
had  wrestled  with  poverty  and  privation,  had  wrung 
the  earth  for  a  scanty  subsistence,  till  they  had 
become  identified  with  the  soil,  kindred  with  it. 
How  strong  the  family  ties  had  grown  in  the  strug- 
gle; how  the  sentiment  of  home  was  fostered! 
Then  the  Carlyles  were  men  who  lavished  their 
heart  and  conscience  upon  their  work;  they  builded 
themselves,  their  days,  their  thoughts  and  sorrows, 
into  their  houses;  they  leavened  the  soil  with  the 
sweat  of  their  rugged  brows.  When  James  Car- 
lyle,  his  father,  after  a  lapse  of  fifty  years,  saw 
Auldgarth  bridge,  upon  which  he  had  worked  as  a 
lad,  he  was  deeply  moved.  When  Carlyle  in  his 
turn  saw  it,  and  remembered  his  father  and  all  he 
had  told  him,  he  also  was  deeply  moved.  "It 
was  as  if  half  a  century  of  past  time  had  fatefully 
for  moments  turned  back."  Whatever  these  men 
touched  with  their  hands  in  honest  toil  became 
sacred  to  them,  a  page  out  of  their  own  lives.  A 
silent,  inarticulate  kind  of  religion  they  put  into 
their  work.  All  this  bore  fruit  in  their  distin- 
guished  descendant.      It    gave   him   that  reverted, 


IN  caklyle's  country  61 

half  mournful  gaze;  the  ground  was  hallowed  be- 
hind him ;  his  dead  called  to  him  from  their  graves. 
Nothing  deepens  and  intensifies  family  traits  like 
poverty  and  toil  and  suffering.  It  is  the  furnace 
heat  that  brings  out  the  characters,  the  pressure 
that  makes  the  strata  perfect.  One  recalls  Carlyle's 
grandmother  getting  her  children  up  late  at  night, 
his  father  one  of  them,  to  break  their  long  fast  with 
oaten  cakes  from  the  meal  that  had  but  just  arrived; 
making  the  fire  from  straw  taken  from  their  beds. 
Surely,  such  things  reach  the  springs  of  being. 

It  seemed  eminently  fit  that  Carlyle's  dust  should 
rest  here  in  his  native  soil,  with  that  of  his  kin- 
dred, he  was  so  thoroughly  one  of  them,  and  that 
his  place  should  be  next  his  mother's,  between 
whom  and  himself  there  existed  such  strong  affec- 
tion. I  recall  a  little  glimpse  he  gives  of  his 
mother  in  a  letter  to  his  brother  John,  while  the 
latter  was  studying  in  Germany.  His  mother  had 
visited  him  in  Edinburgh.  "I  had  her,"  he  writes, 
"at  the  pier  of  Leith,  and  showed  her  where  your 
ship  vanished;  and  she  looked  over  the  blue  waters 
eastward  with  wettish  eyes,  and  asked  the  dumb 
waves  '  when  he  would  be  back  again. '  Good 
mother. " 

To  see  more  of  Ecclefechan  and  its  people,  and 
to  browse  more  at  my  leisure  about  the  country,  I 
brought  my  wife  and  youngster  down  from  Lockerbie ; 
and  we  spent  several  days  there,  putting  up  at  the 
quiet  and  cleanly  little  Bush  Inn.  I  tramped  much 
about  the  neighborhood,  noting  the  birds,  the  wild 


62  FKESH   FIELDS 

flowers,    the    people,    the    farm    occupations,    etc. ; 
going  one  afternoon  to  Scotsbrig,  where  the  Carlyles 
lived  after  they  left  Mainhill,  and  where  both  father 
and   mother   died;   one   day  to  Annan,    another  to 
Repentance  Hill,  another  over  the  hill  toward  Kir- 
tlebridge,  tasting  the  land,  and  finding  it  good.      It 
is  an  evidence  of   how  permanent  and  unchanging 
things  are  here  that  the  house  where  Carlyle  was 
born,  eighty-seven  years  ago,  and  which  his  father 
built,  stands  just  as  it  did  then,  and  looks  good  for 
several  hundred  years  more.      In  going  up  to  the 
little  room  where  he  first  saw  the  light,  one  ascends 
the  much-worn  but  original  stone  stairs,  and  treads 
upon  the  original  stone  floors.      I  suspect  that  even 
the  window  panes  in  the  little  window  remain  the 
same.      The  village  is  a  very  quiet  and  humble  one, 
paved  with  small  cobble-stone,  over  which  one  hears 
the  clatter  of  the  wooden  clogs,  the  same  as  in  Car- 
lyle's  earl;f  days.      The  pavement  comes  quite  up 
to  the  low,  modest,    stone-floored  houses,   and  one 
steps  from  the  street  directly  into  most   of   them. 
When  an  Englishman  or  a  Scotchman  of  the  hum- 
bler ranks  builds  a  house  in  the  country,  he  either 
turns  its  back  upon  the  highway,  or  places  it  sev- 
eral   rods    distant    from   it,    with   sheds   or   stables 
between;  or  else  he  surrounds  it  with  a  high,  mas- 
sive fence,  shutting  out  your  view  entirely.      In  the 
village   he   crowds   it   to   the   front;   continues   the 
street  pavement  into  his  hall,  if  he  can;  allows  no 
fence  or  screen  between  it  and  the  street,  but  makes 
the   communication   between   the   two   as  easy  and 


IN  carlyle's  country  63 

open  as  possible.  At  least  this  is  the  case  with 
most  of  the  older  houses.  Hence  village  houses 
and  cottages  in  Britain  are  far  less  private  and 
secluded  than  ours,  and  country  houses  far  less  pub- 
lic. The  only  feature  of  Ecclefechan,  besides  the 
church,  that  distinguishes  it  from  the  humblest 
peasant  village  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  is  the  large, 
fine  stone  structure  used  for  the  public  school.  It 
confers  a  sort  of  distinction  upon  the  place,  as  if 
it  were  in  some  way  connected  with  the  memory  of 
its  famous  son.  I  think  I  was  informed  that  he 
had  some  hand  in  founding  it.  The  building  in 
which  he  first  attended  school  is  a  low,  humble 
dwelling,  that  now  stands  behind  the  church,  and 
forms  part  of  the  boundary  between  the  cemetery 
and  the  Annan  road. 

From  our  window  I  used  to  watch  the  laborers 
on  their  way  to  their  work,  the  children  going  to 
school,  or  to  the  pump  for  water,  and  night  and 
morning  the  women  bringing  in  their  cows  from  the 
pasture  to  be  milked.  In  the  long  June  gloaming 
the  evening  milking  was  not  done  till  about  nine 
o'clock.  On  two  occasions,  the  first  in  a  brisk 
rain,  a  bedraggled,  forlorn,  deeply-hooded,  youngish 
woman,  came  slowly  through  the  street,  pausing 
here  and  there,  and  singing  in  wild,  melancholy, 
and  not  unpleasing  strains.  Her  voice  had  a  strange 
piercing  plaintiveness  and  wildness.  Now  and  then 
some  passer-by  would  toss  a  penny  at  her  feet. 
The  pretty  Edinburgh  lass,  her  hair  redder  than 
Scotch  gold,  that  waited  upon  us  at  the  inn,  went 


64  FRESH   FIELDS 

out  in  the  rain  and  put  a  penny  in  her  hand.     After 
a  few  pennies  had  been  collected  the  music  would 
stop,  and  the  singer  disappear,  —  to  drink  up  her 
gains,  I  half  suspect,  hut  do  not  know.      I  noticed 
that  she  was  never  treated  with  rudeness  or  disre- 
spect.     The  boys  would  pause  and  regard  her  occa- 
sionally, but  made  no  remark,  or  gesture,  or  grimace. 
One  afternoon  a  traveling  show  pitched  its  tent  in 
the  broader  part  of  the  street,  and  by  diligent  grind- 
ing of  a  hand-organ  summoned  all  the  children  of 
the  place  to  see  the  wonders.      The  admission  was 
one  penny,  and  I  went  in  with  the  rest,  and  saw 
the  little  man,  the  big  dog,  the  happy  family,  and 
the  gaping,  dirty-faced,  but  orderly  crowd  of  boys 
and    girls.      The   Ecclefechan   boys,    with   some   of 
whom  I  tried,    not  very  successfully,  to  scrape  an 
acquaintance,   I  found  a  sober,   quiet,   modest  set, 
shy  of  strangers,  and,  like  all  country  boys,  incip- 
ient naturalists.      If  you  want  to  know  where  the 
birds' -nests  are,  ask  the  boys.      Hence,  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  meeting  a  couple  of  them  on  the  Annan 
road,  I  put  the  inquiry.      They  looked  rather  blank 
and  unresponsive  at  first;  but  I  made  them  under- 
stand I  was  in  earnest,    and  wished  to  be  shown 
some  nests.     To  stimulate  their  ornithology  I  offered 
a  penny  for  the  first  nest,  twopence  for  the  second, 
threepence  for  the  third,  etc. ,  —  a  reward  that,  as 
it  turned  out,  lightened  my  burden  of   British  cop- 
per considerably;  for  these  boys  appeared  to  know 
every  nest  in  the  neighborhood,  and  I  suspect  had 
just  then  been  making  Sunday  calls  upon  their  feath- 


IN  carlyle's  country  65 

ered  friends.  They  turned  about,  with  a  bashful 
smile,  but  without  a  word,  and  marched  me  a  few 
paces  along  the  road,  when  they  stepped  to  the 
hedge,  and  showed  me  a  hedge-sparrow's  nest  with 
young.  The  mother  bird  was  near,  with  food  in 
her  beak.  This  nest  is  a  great  favorite  of  the 
cuckoo,  and  is  the  one  to  which  Shakespeare  re- 
fers :  — 

"  The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long 
That  it 's  had  it  head  bit  off  by  it  young." 

The  bird  is  not  a  sparrow  at  all,  but  is  a  warbler, 
closely  related  to  the  nightingale.  Then  they  con- 
ducted me  along  a  pretty  by-road,  and  parted  away 
the  branches,  and  showed  me  a  sparrow's  nest  with 
eggs  in  it.  A  group  of  wild  pansies,  the  first  I 
had  seen,  made  bright  the  bank  near  it.  Next, 
after  conferring  a  moment  soberly  together,  they 
took  me  to  a  robin's  nest,  — a  warm,  mossy  struc- 
ture in  the  side  of  the  bank.  Then  we  wheeled 
up  another  road,  and  they  disclosed  the  nest  of  the 
yellow  yite,  or  yell^^w-hammer,  a  bird  of  the  spar- 
row kind,  also  upon  the  ground.  It  seemed  to 
have  a  little  platform  of  coarse,  dry  stalks,  like  a 
door-stone,  in  front  of  it.  In  the  mean  time  they 
had  showed  me  several  nests  of  the  hedge-sparrow, 
and  one  of  the  shilfa,  or  chaffinch,  that  had  been 
"harried,"  as  the  boys  said,  or  robbed.  These 
were  gratuitous  and  merely  by  the  way.  Then  they 
pointed  out  to  me  the  nest  of  a  tomtit  in  a  disused 
pump  that  stood  near  the  cemetery;  after  which 
they  proposed  to  conduct  me  to  a  chaffinch's  nest 


66  FRESH   FIELDS 

and  a  blackbird's  nest;  but  I  said  I  had  already 
seen  several  of  these  and  my  curiosity  was  satisfied. 
Did  they  know  any  others?  Yes,  several  of  them; 
beyond  the  village,  on  the  Middlebie  road,  they 
knew  a  wren's  nest  with  eighteen  eggs  in  it.  Well, 
I  would  see  that,  and  that  would  be  enough;  the 
coppers  were  changing  pockets  too  fast.  So  through 
the  village  we  went,  and  along  the  Middlebie  road 
for  nearly  a  mile.  The  boys  were '  as  grave  and 
silent  as  if  they  were  attending  a  funeral;  not  a 
remark,  not  a  smile.  We  walked  rapidly.  The 
afternoon  was  warm,  for  Scotland,  and  the  tips  of 
their  ears  glowed  through  their  locks,  as  they  wiped 
their  brows.  I  began  to  feel  as  if  I  had  had  about 
enough  walking  myself.  "  Boys,  how  much  farther 
is  it?"  I  said.  "A  wee  bit  farther,  sir;"  and 
presently,  by  their  increasing  pace,  I  knew  we  were 
nearing  it.  It  proved  to  be  the  nest  of  the  willow 
wren,  or  willow  warbler,  an  exquisite  structure, 
with  a  dome  or  canopy  above  it,  the  cavity  lined 
with  feathers  and  crowded  with  eggs.  But  it  did 
not  contain  eighteen.  The  boys  said  they  had  been 
told  that  the  bird  would  lay  as  many  as  eighteen 
eggs;  but  it  is  the  common  wren  that  lays  this 
number,  —  even  more.  What  struck  me  most  was 
the  gravity  and  silent  earnestness  of  the  boys.  As 
we  walked  back  they  showed  me  more  nests  that 
had  been  harried.  The  elder  boy's  name  was 
Thomas.  He  had  heard  of  Thomas  Carlyle;  but 
when  I  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  him,  he  only 
looked  awkwardly  upon  the  ground. 


IN  carlyle's  country  67 

I  had  less  trouble  to  get  the  opinion  of  an  old 
road-mender  whom  I  fell  in  with  one  day.  I  was 
walking  toward  Kepentance  Hill,  when  he  overtook 
me  with  his  "machine"  (all  road  vehicles  in  Scot- 
land are  called  machines),  and  insisted  upon  my 
getting  up  beside  him.  He  had  a  little  white 
pony,  "twenty-one  years  old,  sir,"  and  a  heavy, 
rattling  two-wheeler,  quite  as  old  I  should  say. 
We  discoursed  about  roads.  Had  we  good  roads  in 
America?  Xo?  Had  we  no  "metal"  there,  no 
stone  1  Plenty  of  it,  I  told  him,  —  too  much ;  but 
we  had  not  learned  the  art  of  road-making  yet. 
Then  he  would  have  to  come  "out"  and  show  us; 
indeed,  he  had  been  seriously  thinking  about  it;  he 
had  an  uncle  in  America,  but  had  lost  all  track  of 
him.  He  had  seen  Carlyle  many  a  time,  "but  the 
people  here  took  no  interest  in  that  man,"  he  said; 
"he  never  done  nothing  for  this  place."  Eef erring 
to  Carlyle's  ancestors,  he  said,  "The  Cairls  were 
what  we  Scotch  call  bullies,  —  a  set  of  bullies,  sir. 
If  you  crossed  their  path,  they  would  murder  you ;  " 
and  then  came  out  some  highly-colored  tradition  of 
the  "Ecclefechan  dog  fight,"  which  Carlyle  refers 
to  in  his  Reminiscences.  On  this  occasion,  the  old 
road-mender  said,  the  ' '  Cairls  ' '  had  clubbed  to- 
gether, and  bullied  and  murdered  half  the  people 
of  the  place!  "No,  sir,  we  take  no  interest  in  that 
man  here,"  and  he  gave  the  pony  a  sharp  punch  with 
his  stub  of  a  whip.  But  he  himself  took  a  friendly 
interest  in  the  schoolgirls  whom  we  overtook  along 
the  road,  and  kept  picking  them  up  till  the  cart  was 


68  FRESH   FIELDS 

full,  and  giving  the  ' '  lassies "  a  lift  on  their  way 
home.  Beyond  Annan  bridge  we  parted  company, 
and  a  short  walk  brought  me  to  Repentance  Hill,  a 
grassy  eminence  that  commands  a  wide  prospect  to- 
ward the  Solway.  The  tower  which  stands  on  the 
top  is  one  of  those  interesting  relics  of  which  this 
land  is  full,  and  all  memory  and  tradition  of  the  use 
and  occasion  of  w^hich  are  lost.  It  is  a  rude  stone 
structure,  about  thirty  feet  square  and  forty  high, 
pierced  by  a  single  door,  with  the  word  "Eepent- 
ance  '^  cut  in  Old  English  letters  in  the  lintel  over  it. 
The  walls  are  loopholed  here  and  there  for  musketry 
or  archery.  An  old  disused  graveyard  surrounds  it, 
and  the  walls  of  a  little  chapel  stand  in  the  rear  of  it. 
The  conies  have  their  holes  under  it;  some  lord, 
whose  castle  lies  in  the  valley  below,  has  his  flagstaff 
upon  it;  and  Time's  initials  are  scrawled  on  every 
stone.  A  piece  of  mortar  probably  three  or  four 
hundred  years  old,  that  had  fallen  from  its  place,  I 
picked  up,  and  found  nearly  as  hard  as  the  stone, 
and  quite  as  gray  and  lichen-covered.  Returning,  I 
stood  some  time  on  Annan  bridge,  looking  over  the 
parapet  into  the  clear,  swirling  water,  now  and  then 
seeing  a  trout  leap.  Whenever  the  pedestrian  comes 
to  one  of  these  arched  bridges,  he  must  pause  and 
admire,  it  is  so  unlike  what  he  is  acquainted  with 
at  home.  It  is  a  real  viaduct ;  it  conducts  not 
merely  the  traveler  over,  it  conducts  the  road  over 
as  well.  Then  an  arched  bridge  is  ideally  perfect ; 
there  is  no  room  for  criticism,  —  not  one  superflu- 
ous touch  or   stroke;    every   stone   tells,    and   tells 


IN  carlyle's  country  69 

entirely.  Of  a  piece  of  architecture,  we  can  say 
this  or  that,  but  of  one  of  these  old  bridges  this 
only :  it  satisfies  every  sense  of  the  mind.  It  has 
the  beauty  of  poetry,  and  the  precision  of  mathe- 
matics. The  older  bridges,  like  this  over  the  An- 
nan, are  slightly  hipped,  so  that  the  road  rises 
gradually  from  either  side  to  the  key  of  the  arch; 
this  adds  to  their  beauty,  and  makes  them  look 
more  like  things  of  life.  The  modern  bridges  are 
all  level  on  the  top,  which  increases  their  utility. 
Two  laborers,  gossiping  on  the  bridge,  said  I  could 
fish  by  simply  going  and  asking  leave  of  some  func- 
tionary about  the  castle. 

Shakespeare  says  of  the  martlet,  that  it 

"  Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty." 

I  noticed  that  a  pair  had  built  their  nest  on  an  iron 
bracket  under  the  eaves  of  a  building  opposite  our 
inn,  which  proved  to  be  in  the  "road  of  casualty;" 
for  one  day  the  painters  began  scraping  the  build- 
ing, preparatory  to  giving  it  a  new  coat  of  paint, 
and  the  "procreant  cradle"  was  knocked  down. 
The  swallows  did  not  desert  the  place,  however, 
but  were  at  work  again  next  morning  before  the 
painters  were.  The  Scotch,  by  the  way,  make  a 
free  use  of  paint.  They  even  paint  their  tomb- 
stones. Most  of  them,  I  observed,  were  brown 
stones  painted  white.  Carlyle's  father  once  sternly 
drove  the  painters  from  his  door  when  they  had 
been  summoned  by  the  younger  members  of  his 
family  to  give  the  house  a  coat  "o'   pent."     "Ye 


70  FRESH   FIELDS 

can  jist  pent  the  bog  wi'  yer  ashbaket  feet,  for  ye  '11 
pit  nane  o'  yer  giaur  on  ma  door."  But  the  paint- 
ers have  had  their  revenge  at  last,  and  their  "glaur  " 
now  covers  the  old  man's  tombstone. 

One  day  I  visited  a  little  overgrown  cemetery 
about  a  mile  below  the  village,  toward  Kirtlebridge, 
and  saw  many  of  the  graves  of  the  old  stock  of  Car- 
lyles,  among  them  some  of  Carlyle's  uncles.  This 
name  occurs  very  often  in  those  old  cemeteries; 
they  were  evidently  a  prolific  and  hardy  race.  The 
name  Thomas  is  a  favorite  one  among  them,  inso- 
much that  I  saw  the  graves  and  headstones  of  eight 
Thomas  Carlyles  in  the  two  graveyards.  The  old- 
est Carlyle  tomb  I  saw  was  that  of  one  John  Car- 
lyle,  who  died  in  1692.  The  inscription  wpon  his 
stone  is  as  follows :  — 

"Heir  Lyes  John  Carlyle  of  Penerssaughs,  who 
departed  this  life  ye  17  of  May  1692,  and  of  age 
72,  and  His  Spouse  Jannet  Davidson,  who  de- 
parted this  life  Febr.  ye  7,  1708,  and  of  age  73. 
Erected  by  John,  his  son." 

The  old  sexton,  whom  I  frequently  saw  in  the 
churchyard,  lives  in  the  Carlyle  house.  He  knew 
the  family  well,  and  had  some  amusing  and  charac- 
teristic anecdotes  to  relate  of  Carlyle's  father,  the 
redoubtable  James,  mainly  illustrative  of  his  blunt- 
ness  and  plainness  of  speech.  The  sexton  jDointed 
out,  with  evident  pride,  the  few  noted  graves  the 
churchyard  held ;  that  of  the  elder  Peel  being  among 
them.  He  spoke  of  many  of  the  oldest  graves  as 
"extinct;"   nobody   owned   or   claimed   them;    the 


IN  caelyle's  country  71 

name  had  disappeared,  and  the  ground  was  used  a 
second  time.  The  ordinary  graves  in  these  old 
burying  places  appear  to  become  "  extinct "  in  about 
two  hundred  years.  It  was  very  rare  to  find  a  date 
older  than  that.  He  said  the  "Cairls"  were  a  pe- 
culiar set ;  there  was  nobody  like  them.  You  would 
know  them,  man  and  woman,  as  soon  as  they 
opened  their  mouths  to  speak;  they  spoke  as  if 
against  a  stone  wall.  (Their  words  hit  hard. )  This 
is  somewhat  like  Carlyle's  own  view  of  his  style. 
"My  style,"  he  says  in  his  note-book,  when  he  was 
thirty-eight  years  of  age,  "is  like  no  other  man's. 
The  first  sentence  bewrays  me."  Indeed,  Carlyle's 
style,  which  has  been  so  criticised,  was  as  much  a 
part  of  himself,  and  as  little  an  affectation,  as  his 
shock  of  coarse  yeoman  hair  and  bristly  beard  and 
bleared  eyes  were  a  part  of  himself;  he  inherited 
them.  What  Taine  calls  his  barbarisms  was  his 
strong  mason  sire  cropping  out.  He  was  his  father's 
son  to  the  last  drop  of  his  blood,  a  master  builder 
Avorking  with  might  and  main.  No  more  did  the 
former  love  to  put  a  rock  face  upon  his  wall  than 
did  the  latter  to  put  the  same  rock  face  upon  his 
sentences;  and  he  could  do  it,  too,  as  no  other 
writer,  ancient  or  modern,  could. 

I  occasionally  saw  strangers  at  the  station,  which 
is  a  mile  from  the  village,  inquiring  their  way  to 
the  churchyard;  but  I  was  told  there  had  been  a 
notable  falling  off  of  the  pilgrims  and  visitors  of 
late.  During  the  first  few  months  after  his  burial, 
they  nearly  denuded  the  grave  of  its  turf;  but  after 


72  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  publication  of  the  E-emiiiiscences,  the  number 
of  silly  geese  that  came  there  to  crop  the  grass  was 
much  fewer.  No  real  lover  of  Carlyle  was  ever 
disturbed  by  those  Reminiscences ;  but  to  the  throng 
that  run  after  a  man  because  he  is  famous,  and  that 
chip  his  headstone  or  carry  away  the  turf  above  him 
when  he  is  dead,  they  were  happily  a  great  bugaboo. 
A  most  agreeable  walk  I  took  one  day  down  to 
Annan.  Irving' s  name  still  exists  there,  but  I 
believe  all  his  near  kindred  have  disappeared. 
Across  the  street  from  the  little  house  where  he 
was  born  this  sign  may  be  seen:  "Edward  Irving, 
Flesher.''  While  in  Glasgow,  I  visited  Irving's 
grave,  in  the  crypt  of  the  cathedral,  a  most  dismal 
place,  and  was  touched  to  see  the  bronze  tablet  that 
marked  its  site  in  the  pavement  bright  and  shining, 
while  those  about  it,  of  Sir  this  or  Lady  that,  were 
dull  and  tarnished.  Did  some  devoted  hand  keep 
it  scoured,  or  was  the  polishing  done  by  the  many 
feet  that  paused  thoughtfully  above  this  name? 
Irving  would  long  since  have  been  forgotten  by  the 
world  had  it  not  been  for  his  connection  with  Car- 
lyle, and  it  was  probably  the  lustre  of  the  latter 's 
memory  that  I  saw  reflected  in  the  metal  that  bore 
Irving's  name.  The  two  men  must  have  been  of 
kindred  genius  in  many  ways,  to  have  been  so 
drawn  to  each  other,  but  Irving  had  far  less  hold 
upon  reality;  his  written  word  has  no  projectile 
force.  It  makes  a  vast  difference  whether  you  burn 
gunpowder  on  a  shovel  or  in  a  gun-barrel.  Irving 
may  be  said  to  have  made  a  brilliant  flash,  and  then 
to  have  disappeared  in  the  smoke. 


IN  caelyle's  country  73 

Some  men  are  like  nails,  easily  drawn;  others 
are  like  rivets,  not  drawable  at  all.  Carlyle  is  a 
rivet,  well  headed  in.  He  is  not  going  to  give 
way,  and  be  forgotten  soon.  People  who  differed 
from  him  in  opinion  have  stigmatized  him  as  an 
actor,  a  mountebank,  a  rhetorician ;  but  he  was  com- 
mitted to  his  purpose  and  to  the  part  he  played 
with  the  force  of  gravity.  Behold  how  he  toiled! 
He  says,  "One  monster  there  is  in  the  world,  — the 
idle  man."  He  did  not  merely  preach  the  gospel 
of  work ;  he  was  it,  —  an  indomitable  worker  from 
first  to  last.  How  he  delved!  How  he  searched 
for  a  sure  foundation,  like  a  master  builder,  fighting 
his  way  through  rubbish  and  quicksands  till  he 
rea-ched  the  rock !  Each  of  his  review  articles  cost 
him  a  month  or  more  of  serious  work.  "  Sartor 
Resartus "  cost  him  nine  months,  the  "  French 
Revolution"  three  years,  "Cromwell"  four  years, 
"  Frederick "  thirteen  years.  No  surer  does  the 
Auldgarth  bridge,  that  his  father  helped  build,  carry 
the  traveler  over  the  turbulent  water  beneath  it, 
than  these  books  convey  the  reader  over  chasms  and 
confusions,  where  before  there  was  no  way,  or  only 
an  inadequate  one.  Carlyle  never  wrote  a  book 
except  to  clear  some  gulf  or  quagmire,  to  span  and 
conquer  some  chaos.  No  architect  or  engineer  ever 
had  purpose  more  tangible  and  definite.  To  further 
the  reader  on  his  way,  not  to  beguile  or  amuse  him, 
was  always  his  purpose.  He  had  that  contempt 
for  all  dallying  and  toying  and  lightness  and  frivo- 
lousness   that   hard,    serious  workers   always   have. 


74  FRESH   FIELDS 

He  was  impatient  of  poetry  and  art;  they  savored 
too  much  of  play  and  levity.  His  own  work  was 
not  done  lightly  and  easily,  but  with  labor  throes 
and  pains,  as  of  planting  his  piers  in  a  weltering 
flood  and  chaos.  The  spirit  of  struggling  and 
wrestling  which  he  had  inherited  was  always  upper- 
most. It  seems  as  if  the  travail  and  yearning  of  his 
mother  had  passed  upon  him  as  a  birthmark.  The 
universe  was  madly  rushing  about  him,  seeking  to 
engulf  him.  Things  assumed  threatening  and  spec- 
tral shapes.  There  was  little  joy  or  serenity  for 
him.  Every  task  he  proposed  to  himself  was  a 
struggle  with  chaos  and  darkness,  real  or  imaginary. 
He  speaks  of  "Frederick"  as  a  nightmare;  the 
"  Cromwell  business  "  as  toiling  amid  mountains  of 
dust.  I  know  of  no  other  man  in  literature  with 
whom  the  sense  of  labor  is  so  tangible  and  terrible. 
That  vast,  grim,  struggling,  silent,  inarticulate 
array  of  ancestral  force  that  lay  in  him,  when  the 
burden  of  written  speech  was  laid  upon  it,  half 
rebelled,  and  would  not  cease  to  struggle  and  be 
inarticulate.  There  was  a  plethora  of  power:  a 
channel,  as  through  rocks,  had  to  be  made  for  it, 
and  there  was  an  incipient  cataclysm  whenever  a 
book  was  to  be  written.  What  brings  joy  and 
buoyancy  to  other  men,  namely,  a  genial  task, 
brought  despair  and  convulsions  to  him.  It  is  not 
the  effort  of  composition,  —  he  was  a  rapid  and 
copious  writer  and  speaker,  — but  the  pressure  of 
purpose,  the  friction  of  power  and  velocity,  the 
sense  of  overcoming  the  demons  and  mud-gods  and 


IN   CAELYLE  S   COUNTRY  75 

frozen  torpidity  he  so  often  refers  to.  Hence  no 
writing  extant  is  so  little  like  writing,  and  gives 
so  vividly  the  sense  of  something  clone.  He  may 
praise  silence  and  glorify  work.  The  unspeakable 
is  ever  present  with  him;  it  is  the  core  of  every 
sentence:  the  inarticulate  is  round  about  him;  a 
solitude  like  that  of  space  encompasseth  him.  His 
books  are  not  easy  reading;  they  are  a  kind  of 
wrestling  to  most  persons.  His  style  is  like  a  road 
made  of  rocks:  when  it  is  good,  there  is  nothing 
like  it ;  and  when  it  is  bad,  there  is  nothing  like  it ! 
In  "  Past  and  Present  "  Carlyle  has  unconsciously 
painted  his  own  life  and  character  in  truer  colors 
than  has  any  one  else:  "Not  a  May-game  is  this 
man's  life,  but  a  battle  and  a  march,  a  warfare  with 
principalities  and  powers ;  no  idle  promenade  through 
fragrant  orange  groves  and  green,  flowery  spaces, 
waited  on  by  the  choral  Muses  and  the  rosy  Hours: 
it  is  a  stern  pilgrimage  through  burning,  sandy 
solitudes,  through  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice.  He 
walks  among  men;  loves  men  with  inexpressible 
soft  pity,  as  they  cannot  love  him:  but  his  soul 
dwells  in  solitude,  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  Crea- 
tion. In  green  oases  by  the  palm-tree  wells,  he 
rests  a  space;  but  anon  he  has  to  journey  forward, 
escorted  by  the  Terrors  and  the  Splendors,  the 
Archdemons  and  Archangels.  All  heaven,  all  pan- 
demonium, are  his  escort."  Part  of  the  Avorld  will 
doubtless  persist  in  thinking  that  pandemonium  fur- 
nished his  chief  counsel  and  guide;  but  there  are 
enough  who  think  otherwise,  and  their  numbers  are 
bound  to  increase  in  the  future. 


IV 

A  HUNT  FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE 


\\l  HILE  I  lingered  away  the  latter  half  of  May 
^  ^  in  Scotland,  and  the  first  half  of  June  in 
northern  England,  and  finally  in  London,  intent  on 
seeing  the  land  leisurely  and  as  the  mood  suited, 
the  thought  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  in 
danger  of  missing  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  I  had 
promised  myself  in  crossing  the  Atlantic,  namely, 
the  hearing  of  the  song  of  the  nightingale.  Hence, 
when  on  the  17th  of  June  I  found  myself  down 
among  the  copses  near  Hazlemere,  on  the  borders  of 
Surrey  and  Sussex,  and  was  told  by  the  old  farmer, 
to  whose  house  I  had  been  recommended  by  friends 
in  London,  that  I  was  too  late,  that  the  season  of 
the  nightingale  was  over,  I  was  a  good  deal  dis- 
turbed. 

"I  think  she  be  done  singing  now,  sir;  I  ain't 
heered  her  in  some  time,  sir,"  said  my  farmer,  as 
we  sat  down  to  get  acquainted  over  a  mug  of  the 
hardest  cider  I  ever  attempted  to  drink. 

"Too  late!"  I  said  in  deep  chagrin,  "and  I 
might  have  been  here  weeks  ago." 

"Yeas,  sir,  she  be  done  now;  May  is  the  time 
to  hear  her.      The  cuckoo  is  done  too,  sir;  and  you 


78  FRESH   FIELDS 

don't  hear  the  nightingale  after  the  cuckoo  is  gone, 


sir. " 


(The  country  peo^Dle  in  this  part  of  England  sir 
one  at  the  end  of  every  sentence,  and  talk  with  an 
indescribable  drawl.) 

But  I  had  heard  a  cuckoo  that  very  afternoon, 
and  I  took  heart  from  the  fact.  I  afterward  learned 
that  the  country  people  everywhere  associate  these 
two  birds  in  this  way;  you  will  not  hear  the  one 
after  the  other  has  ceased.  But  I  heard  the  cuckoo 
almost  daily  till  the  middle  of  July,  Matthew 
Arnold  reflects  the  popular  opinion  when  in  one  of 
his  poems  ("  Thyrsis  ")  he  makes  the  cuckoo  say  in 
early  June,  — 

"  The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I  !  " 

The  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  Shakespeare,  who 
says,  — 

"  The  cuckoo  is  in  June 
Heard,  not  regarded," 

as  the  bird  really  does  not  go  till  August.  I  got 
out  my  Gilbert  White,  as  I  should  have  done  at  an 
earlier  day,  and  was  still  more  disturbed  to  find 
that  he  limited  the  singing  of  the  nightingale  to 
June  15.  But  seasons  differ,  I  thought,  and  it 
can't  be  possible  that  any  class  of  feathered  song- 
sters all  stop  on  a  given  day.  There  is  a  tradition 
that  when  George  I.  died  the  nightingales  all  ceased 
singing  for  the  year  out  of  grief  at  the  sad  event; 
but  his  majesty  did  not  die  till  June  21.  This 
would  give  me  a  margin  of  several  days.  Then, 
when  I  looked  further  in  White,  and  found  that  he 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE  79 

says  the  chaffinch  ceases  to  sing  the  beginning  of 
June,  I  took  more  courage,  for  I  had  that  day  heard 
the  chaffinch  also.  But  it  was  evident  I  had  no 
time  to  lose;  I  was  just  on  the  dividing  line,  and 
any  day  might  witness  the  cessation  of  the  last 
songster.  For  it  seems  that  the  nightingale  ceases 
singing  the  moment  her  brood  is  hatched.  After 
that  event,  you  hear  only  a  harsh  chiding  or  anxious 
note.  Hence  the  poets,  who  attribute  her  melan- 
choly strains  to  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  her  young, 
are  entirely  at  fault.  Virgil,  portraying  the  grief 
of  Orpheus  after  the  loss  of  Eurydice,  says :  — 

"  So  Philomela,  'mid  the  poplar  shade, 
Bemoans  her  captive  brood ;  the  cruel  hind 
Saw  them  unplumed,  and  took  them ;  but  all  night 
Grieves  she,  and,  sitting  on  a  bough,  runs  o'er 
Her  wretched  tale,  and  tills  the  woods  with  woe." 

But  she  probably  does  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
song  of  a  bird  is  not  a  reminiscence,  but  an  antici- 
pation, and  expresses  happiness  or  joy  only,  except 
in  those  cases  where  the  male  bird,  having  lost  its 
mate,  sings  for  a  few  days  as  if  to  call  the  lost  one 
back.  When  the  male  renews  his  powers  of  song, 
after  the  young  brood  has  been  destroyed,  or  after 
it  has  flown  away,  it  is  a  sign  that  a  new  brood  is 
contemplated.  The  song  is,  as  it  were,  the  magic 
note  that  calls  the  brood  forth.  At  least,  this  is 
the  habit  with  other  song-birds,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  the  same  holds  good  with  the  nightingale. 
Destroy  the  nest  or  brood  of  the  wood  thrush,  and 
if  the  season  is  not  too  far  advanced,  after  a  week 


80  FRESH    FIELDS 

or  ten  days  of  silence,  during  which  the  parent 
birds  by  their  manner  seem  to  bemoan  their  loss 
and  to  take  counsel  together,  the  male  breaks  forth 
with  a  new  song,  and  the  female  begins  to  construct 
a  new  nest.  The  poets,  therefore,  in  depicting  the 
bird  on  such  occasions  as  bewailing  the  lost  brood, 
are  wide  of  the  mark;  he  is  invoking  and  celebrat- 
ing a  new  brood. 

As  it  was  mid-afternoon,  I  could  only  compose 
myself  till  nightfall.  I  accompanied  the  farmer  to 
the  hay-field  and  saw  the  working  of  his  mowing- 
machine,  a  rare  implement  in  England,  as  most  of 
the  grass  is  still  cut  by  hand,  and  raked  by  hand 
also.  The  disturbed  skylarks  were  hovering  above 
the  falling  grass,  full  of  anxiety  for  their  nests,  as 
one  may  note  the  bobolinks  on  like  occasions  at 
home.  The  weather  is  so  uncertain  in  England, 
and  it  is  so  impossible  to  predict  its  complexion, 
not  only  from  day  to  day  but  from  hour  to  hour, 
that  the  farmers  appear  to  consider  it  a  suitable  time 
to  cut  grass  when  it  is  not  actually  raining.  They 
slash  away  without  reference  to  the  aspects  of  the 
sky,  and  when  the  field  is  down  trust  to  luck  to  be 
able  to  cure  the  hay,  or  get  it  ready  to  "  carry " 
between  the  showers.  The  clouds  were  lowering 
and  the  air  was  damp  now,  and  it  was  Saturday 
afternoon;  but  the  farmer  said  they  would  never 
get  their  hay  if  they  minded  such  things.  The 
farm  had  seen  better  days;  so  had  the  farmer;  both 
were  slightly  down  at  the  heel.  Too  high  rent  and 
too  much  hard  cider  were  working  their  effects  upon 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE  81 

both.  The  farm  had  been  in  the  family  many  gen- 
erations, but  it  was  now  about  to  be  sold  and  to 
pass  into  other  hands,  and  my  host  said  he  was  glad 
of  it.  There  was  no  money  in  farming  any  more; 
no  money  in  anything.  I  asked  him  what  were 
the  main  sources  of  profit  on  such  a  farm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "sometimes  the  wheat  pops  up, 
and  the  barley  drops  in,  and  the  pigs  come  on,  and 
we  picks  up  a  little  money,  sir,  but  not  much,  sir. 
Pigs  is  doing  well  naow.  But  they  brings  so  much 
wheat  from  Ameriky,  and  our  weather  is  so  bad 
that  we  can't  get  a  good  sample,  sir,  one  year  in 
three,  that  there  is  no  money  made  in  growing 
wheat,  sir."  And  the  "wuts"  (oats)  were  not 
much  better.  "Theys  as  would  buy  hain't  got  no 
money,  sir."  "Up  to  the  top  of  the  nip,"  for  top 
of  the  hill,  was  one  of  his  expressions.  Tennyson 
had  a  summer  residence  at  Blackdown,  not  far  off. 
"One  of  the  Queen's  poets,  I  believe,  sir."  "Yes, 
I  often  see  him  riding  about,  sir." 

After  an  hour  or  two  with  the  farmer,  I  walked 
out  to  take -a  survey  of  the  surrounding  country. 
It  was  quite  wild  and  irregular,  full  of  bushy  fields 
and  overgrown  hedge-rows,  and  looked  to  me  very 
nightingaly.  I  followed  for  a  mile  or  two  a  road 
that  led  by  tangled  groves  and  woods  and  copses, 
with  a  still  meadow  trout  stream  in  the  gentle 
valley  below.  I  inquired  for  nightingales  of  every 
boy  and  laboring-man  I  met  or  saw.  I  got  but 
little  encouragement;  it  was  too  late.  "She  be 
about  done  singing  now,  sir."     A  boy  whom  I  met 


82  FRESH   FIELDS 

in  a  footpath  that  ran  through  a  pasture  beside  a 
copse  said,  after  reflecting  a  moment,  that  he  had 
heard  one  in  that  very  copse  two  mornings  before, 
—  "about  seven  o'clock,  sir,  while  I  was  on  my 
way  to  my  work,  sir. "  Then  I  would  try  my  luck 
in  said  copse  and  in  the  adjoining  thickets  that 
night  and  the  next  morning.  The  railway  ran 
near,  but  perhaps  that  might  serve  to  keep  the  birds 
awake.  These  copses  in  this  part  of  England  look 
strange  enough  to  American  eyes.  What  thriftless 
farming!  the  first  thought  is;  behold  the  fields 
grown  up  to  bushes,  as  if  the  land  had  relapsed  to 
a  state  of  nature  again.  Adjoining  meadows  and 
grain-fields,  one  may  see  an  inclosure  of  many  acres 
covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  oak  and  chestnut 
sprouts,  six  or  eight  or  twelve  feet  high.  These 
are  the  copses  one  has  so  often  heard  about,  and 
they  are  a  valuable  and  productive  part  of  the  farm. 
They  are  planted  and  preserved  as  carefully  as  we 
plant  an  orchard  or  a  vineyard.  Once  in  so  many 
years,  perhaps  five  or  six,  the  copse  is  cut  and 
every  twig  is  saved;  it  is  a  woodland  harvest  that 
in  our  own  country  is  gathered  in  the  forest  itself. 
The  larger  poles  are  tied  up  in  bundles  and  sold 
for  hoop-poles;  the  fine  branches  and  shoots  are 
made  into  brooms  in  the  neighboring  cottages  and 
hamlets,  or  used  as  material  for  thatching.  The 
refuse  is  used  as  wood. 

About  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  sallied 
forth,  taking  my  way  over  the  ground  I  had 
explored  a  few  hours  before.      The  gloaming,  which 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE  83 

at  this  season  lasts  till  after  ten  o'clock,  dragged 
its  slow  length  along.  Nine  o'clock  came,  and, 
though  my  ear  was  attuned,  the  songster  was  tardy. 
I  hovered  about  the  copses  and  hedge-rows  like  one 
meditating  some  dark  deed;  I  lingered  in  a  grove 
and  about  an  overgrown  garden  and  a  neglected 
orchard;  I  sat  on  stiles  and  leaned  on  Avickets, 
mentally  speeding  the  darkness  that  should  bring 
my  singer  out.  The  weather  was  damp  and  chilly, 
and  the  tryst  grew  tiresome.  I  had  brought  a  rub- 
ber water-proof,  but  not  an  overcoat.  Lining  the 
back  of  the  rubber  with  a  newspaper,  I  wrapped  it 
about  me  and  sat  down,  determined  to  lay  siege  to 
my  bird.  A  footpath  that  ran  along  the  fields  and 
bushes  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  valley  showed 
every  few  minutes  a  woman  or  girl,  or  boy  or 
laborer,  passing  along  it.  A  path  near  me  also  had 
its  frequent  figures  moving  along  in  the  dusk.  In 
this  country  people  travel  in  footpaths  as  much  as 
in  highways.  The  paths  give  a  private,  human 
touch  to  the  landscape  that  the  roads  do  not.  They 
are  sacred  to  the  human  foot.  They  have  the  sen- 
timent of  domesticity,  and  suggest  the  way  to  cot- 
tage doors  and  to  simple,  primitive  times. 

Presently  a  man  with  a  fishing-rod,  and  capped, 
coated,  and  booted  for  the  work,  came  through  the 
meadow,  and  began  casting  for  trout  in  the  stream 
below  me.  How  he  gave  himself  to  the  work! 
how  oblivious  he  was  of  everything  but  the  one 
matter  in  hand!  I  doubt  if  he  was  conscious  of 
the  train  that   passed   within   a  few  rods  of  him. 


84  FRESH   FIELDS 

Your  born  angler  is  like  a  hound  that  scents  no 
game  but  that  which  he  is  in  pursuit  of.  Every 
sense  and  faculty  were  concentrated  upon  that  hov- 
ering fly.  This  man  wooed  the  stream,  quivering 
with  pleasure  and  expectation.  Every  foot  of  it 
he  tickled  with  his  decoy.  His  close  was  evi- 
dently a  short  one,  and  he  made  the  most  of  it. 
He  lingered  over  every  cast,  and  repeated  it  again 
and  again.  An  American  angler  would  have  been 
out  of  sight  down  stream  long  ago.  But  this  fish- 
erman was  not  going  to  bolt  his  preserve;  his  line 
should  taste  every  drop  of  it.  His  eager,  stealthy 
movements  denoted  his  enjoyment  and  his  absorp- 
tion. When  a  trout  was  caught,  it  was  quickly 
rapped  on  the  head  and  slipped  into  his  basket,  as 
if  in  punishment  for  its  tardiness  in  jumping.  "Be 
quicker  next  time,  will  you  ? "  (British  trout,  by 
the  way,  are  not  so  beautiful  as  our  own.  They 
have  more  of  a  domesticated  look.  They  are  less 
brilliantly  marked,  and  have  much  coarser  scales. 
There  is  no  gold  or  vermilion  in  their  coloring.) 

Presently  there  arose  from  a  bushy  corner  of  a 
near  field  a  low,  peculiar  purring  or  humming 
sound,  that  sent  a  thrill  through  me;  of  course,  I 
thought  my  bird  was  inflating  her  throat.  Then 
the  sound  increased,  and  was  answered  or  repeated 
in  various  other  directions.  It  had  a  curious  ven- 
triloquial  effect.  I  presently  knew  it  to  be  the 
nightjar  or  goatsucker,  a  bird  that  answers  to  our 
whip-poor-will.  Very  soon  the  sound  seemed  to 
be  floating  all  about  me,  —  Jr-r-r-r-v  or  Cliv-r-T-r-i\ 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE  85 

slightly  suggesting  the  call  of  our  toads,  but  more 
vague  as  to  direction.  Then  as  it  grew  darker  the 
birds  ceased;  the  fisherman  reeled  up  and  left.  No 
sound  was  now  heard,  —  not  even  the  voice  of  a 
solitary  frog  anywhere.  I  never  heard  a  frog  in 
England.  About  eleven  o'clock  I  moved  down 
by  a  wood,  and  stood  for  an  hour  on  a  bridge  over 
the  railroad.  No  voice  of  bird  greeted  me  till  the 
sedge-warbler  struck  up  her  curious  nocturne  in  a 
hedge  near  by.  It  w^as  a  singular  medley  of  notes, 
hurried  chirps,  trills,  calls,  warbles,  snatched  from 
the  songs  of  other  birds,  with  a  half-chiding, 
remonstrating  tone  or  air  running  through  it  all. 
As  there  was  no  other  sound  to  be  heard,  and  as 
the  darkness  was  complete,  it  had  the  effect  of  a 
very  private  and  whimsical  performance,  —  as  if  the 
little  bird  had  secluded  herself  there,  and  was  giv- 
ing vent  to  her  emotions  in  the  most  copious  and 
vehement  manner.  I  listened  till  after  midnight, 
and  till  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  vivacious 
warbler  never  ceased  for  a  moment.  White  says 
that,  if  it  stops,  a  stone  tossed  into  the  bush  near 
it  will  set  it  going  again.  Its  voice  is  not  musical; 
the  quality  of  it  is  like  that  of  the  loquacious  Eng- 
lish house  sparrows;  but  its  song  or  medley  is  so 
persistently  animated,  and  in  such  contrast  to  the 
gloom  and  the  darkness,  that  the  effect  is  decidedly 
pleasing. 

This  and  the  nightjar  were  the  only  nightingales 
I  heard  that  night.  I  returned  home,  a  good  deal 
disappointed,  but  slept  upon  my  arms,  as  it  were, 


86  FRESH   FIELDS 

and  was  out  upon  the  chase  again  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  This  time  I  passed  down  a  lane 
by  the  neglected  garden  and  orchard,  where  I  was 
told  the  birds  had  sung  for  weeks  past;  then  under 
the  railroad  by  a  cluster  of  laborers'  cottages,  and 
along  a  road  with  many  copses  and  bushy  fence- 
corners  on  either  hand,  for  two  miles,  but  I  heard 
no  nightingales.  A  boy  of  whom  I  inquired 
seemed  half  frightened,  and  went  into  the  house 
without  answering. 

After  a  late  breakfast  I  sallied  out  again,  going 
farther  in  the  same  direction,  and  was  overtaken  by 
several  showers.  I  heard  many  and  frequent  bird- 
songs,  —  the  lark,  the  wren,  the  thrush,  the  black- 
bird, the  whitethroat,  the  greenfinch,  and  the 
hoarse,  guttural  cooing  of  the  wood-pigeons,  —  but 
not  the  note  I  was  in  quest  of.  I  passed  up  a  road 
that  was  a  deep  trench  in  the  side  of  a  hill  over- 
grown with  low  beeches.  The  roots  of  the  trees 
formed  a  network  on  the  side  of  the  bank,  as  their 
branches  did  above.  In  a  framework  of  roots, 
within  reach  of  my  hand,  I  spied  a  wren's  nest, 
a  round  hole  leading  to  the  interior  of  a  large  mass 
of  soft  green  moss,  a  structure  displaying  the  taste 
and  neatness  of  the  daintiest  of  bird  architects,  and 
the  depth  and  warmth  and  snugness  of  the  most 
ingenious  mouse  habitation.  While  lingering  here, 
a  young  countryman  came  along  whom  I  engaged 
in  conversation.  No,  he  had  not  heard  the  night- 
ingale for  a  few  days;  but  the  previous  week  he 
had  been  in  camp  with  the  militia  near  Guildford, 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE  87 

and  while  on  picket  duty  had  heard  her  nearly  all 
night.  "'Don't  she  sing  splendid  to-night? '  the 
boys  would  say."  This  was  tantalizing;  Guildford 
was  within  easy  reach;  but  the  previous  week,  — 
that  could  not  be  reached.  However,  he  encour- 
aged me  by  saying  he  did  not  think  they  were  done 
singing  yet,  as  he  had  often  heard  them  during 
haying- time.  I  inquired  for  the  blackcap,  but  saw 
he  did  not  know  this  bird,  and  thought  I  referred 
to  a  species  of  tomtit,  which  also  has  a  black  cap. 
The  woodlark  I  was  also  on  the  lookout  for,  but 
he  did  not  knoAV  this  bird  either,  and  during  my 
various  rambles  in  England  I  found  but  one  person 
who  did.  In  Scotland  it  was  confounded  with  the 
titlark  or  pipit. 

I  next  met  a  man  and  boy,  a  villager  with  a 
stove-pipe  hat  on,  —  and,  as  it  turned  out,  a  man 
of  many  trades,  tailor,  barber,  painter,  etc. ,  —  from 
Hazlemere.  The  absorbing  inquiry  was  put  to  him 
also.  No,  not  that  day,  but  a  few  mornings  before 
he  had.  But  he  could  easily  call  one  out,  if  there 
were  any  about,  as  he  could  imitate  them.  Pluck- 
ing a  spear  of  grass,  he  adjusted  it  behind  his  teeth 
and  startled  me  with  the  shrill,  rapid  notes  he 
poured  forth.  I  at  once  recognized  its  resemblance 
to  the  descriptions  I  had  read  of  the  opening  part 
of  the  nightingale  song,  —  what  is  called  the 
"challenge."  The  boy  said,  and  he  himself 
averred,  that  it  was  an  exact  imitation.  The  chew, 
chew,  chew,  and  some  other  parts,  were  very  bird- 
like,   and    I    had   no   doubt   were   correct.      I   was 


88  FRESH   FIELDS 

astonished  at  the  strong,  piercing  quality  of  the 
strain.  It  echoed  in  the  woods  and  copses  about, 
but,  though  oft  repeated,  brought  forth  no  response. 
With  this  man  I  made  an  engagement  to  take  a 
walk  that  evening  at  eight  o'clock  along  a  certain 
route  where  he  had  heard  plenty  of  nightingales  but 
a  few  days  before.  He  was  confident  he  could  call 
them  out;   so  was  I. 

In  the  afternoon,  which  had  gleams  of  warm 
sunshine,  I  made  another  excursion,  less  in  hopes 
of  hearing  my  bird  than  of  finding  some  one  who 
could  direct  me  to  the  right  spot.  Once  I  thought 
the  game  was  very  near.  I  met  a  boy  who  told  me 
he  had  heard  a  nightingale  only  fifteen  minutes 
before,  "on  Polecat  Hill,  sir,  just  this  side  the 
Devil's  Punch-bowl,  sir!"  I  had  heard  of  his 
majesty's  punch-bowl  before,  and  of  the  gibbets 
near  it  where  three  murderers  were  executed  nearly 
a  hundred  years  ago,  but  Polecat  Hill  was  a  new 
name  to  me.  The  combination  did  not  seem  a 
likely  place  for  nightingales,  but  I  walked  rapidly 
thitherward;  I  heard  several  warblers,  but  not 
Philomel,  and  was  forced  to  conclude  that  probably 
I  had  crossed  the  sea  to  miss  my  bird  by  just  fifteen 
minutes.  I  met  many  other  boys  (is  there  any 
country  where  boys  do  not  prowl  about  in  small 
bands  of  a  Sunday?)  and  advertised  the  object  of 
my  search  freely  among  them,  ofi'ering  a  reward 
that  made  their  eyes  glisten  for  the  bird  in  song ; 
but  nothing  ever  came  of  it.  In  my  desperation, 
I  even  presented  a  letter  I  had  brought  to  the  vil- 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE    NIGHTINGALE  89 

lage  squire,  just  as,  in  company  with  his  wife,  he 
was  about  to  leave  his  door  for  church.  He  turned 
back,  and,  hearing  my  quest,  vokinteered  to  take 
me  on  a  long  walk  through  the  wet  grass  and 
bushes  of  his  fields  and  copses,  where  he  knew  the 
birds  were  wont  to  sing.  "Too  late,"  he  said,  and 
so  it  did  appear.  He  showed  me  a  fine  old  edition 
of  White's  "Selborne,"  with  notes  by  some  editor 
whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  This  editor  had 
extended  AVhite's  date  of  June  15  to  July  1,  as 
the  time  to  which  the  nightingale  continues  in  song, 
and  I  felt  like  thanking  him  for  it,  as  it  gave  me 
renewed  hope.  The  squire  thought  there  was  a 
chance  yet;  and  in  case  my  man  with  the  spear 
of  grass  behind  his  teeth  failed  me,  he  gave  me  a 
card  to  an  old  naturalist  and  taxidermist  at  Godal- 
ming,  a  town  nine  miles  above,  who,  he  felt  sure, 
could  put  me  on  the  right  track  if  anybody  could. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  sun  yet  some  distance  above 
the  horizon,  I  was  at  the  door  of  the  barber  in 
Hazlemere.  He  led  the  way  along  one  of  those 
delightful  footpaths  with  which  this  country  is 
threaded,  extending  to  a  neighboring  village  several 
miles  distant.  It  left  the  street  at  Hazlemere,  cut- 
ting through  the  houses  diagonally,  as  if  the  brick 
w^alls  had  made  way  for  it,  passed  between  gardens, 
through  wickets,  over  stiles,  across  the  highway  and 
railroad,  through  cultivated  fields  and  a  gentleman's 
park,  and  on  toward  its  destination,  —  a  broad, 
well-kept  path,  that  seemed  to  have  the  same 
inevitable  right  of  way  as  a  brook.      I  was  told  that 


90  FRESH   FIELDS 

it  was  repaired  and  looked  after  the  same  as  the 
highway.  Indeed,  it  was  a  public  way,  public  to 
pedestrians  only,  and  no  man  could  stop  or  turn  it 
aside.  We  followed  it  along  the  side  of  a  steep 
hill,  with  copses  and  groves  sweeping  down  into 
the  valley  below  us.  It  was  as  wild  and  pic- 
turesque a  spot  as  I  had  seen  in  England.  The 
foxglove  pierced  the  lower  foliage  and  wild  growths 
everywhere  with  its  tall  spires  of  purple  flowers; 
the  wild  honeysuckle,  with  a  ranker  and  coarser 
fragrance  than  our  cultivated  species,  was  just  open- 
ing along  the  hedges.  We  paused  here,  and  my 
guide  blew  his  shrill  call;  he  blew  it  again  and 
again.  How  it  awoke  the  echoes,  and  how  it 
awoke  all  the  other  songsters!  The  valley  below 
us  and  the  slope  beyond,  which  before  were  silent, 
were  soon  musical.  The  chaffinch,  the  robin,  the 
blackbird,  the  thrush  —  the  last  the  loudest  and 
most  copious  —  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  and 
with  the  loud  whistler  above  them.  But  we  lis- 
tened in  vain  for  the  nightingale's  note.  Twice 
my  guide  struck  an  attitude  and  said,  impressively, 
"There!  I  believe  I  'erd  'er."  But  we  were 
obliged  to  give  it  up.  A  shower  came  on,  and 
after  it  had  passed  we  moved  to  another  part  of  the 
landscape  and  repeated  our  call,  but  got  no  response, 
and  as  darkness  set  in  we  returned  to  the  village. 

The  situation  began  to  look  serious.  I  knew 
there  was  a  nightingale  somewhere  whose  brood  had 
been  delayed  from  some  cause  or  other,  and  who 
was  therefore  still  in  song,  but  I  could  not  get  a 


A    HUNT   FOR    THE    NIGHTINGALE  91 

clew  to  the  spot.  I  renewed  the  search  late  that 
night,  and  again  the  next  morning;  I  inquired  of 
every  man  and  boy  I  saw. 

"I  met  many  travelers, 

Who  the  road  had  surely  kept ; 
They  saw  not  my  fine  revelers,  — 

These  had  crossed  them  Avhile  they  slept; 
Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 
In  the  country  or  the  court." 

I  soon  learned  to  distrust  young  fellows  and  their 
girls  who  had  heard  nightingales  in  the  gloaming. 
I  knew  one's  ears  could  not  always  be  depended 
upon  on  such  occasions,  nor  his  eyes  either.  Larks 
are  seen  in  buntings,  and  a  wren's  song  entrances 
like  Philomel's.  A  young  couple  of  whom  I  in- 
quired in  the  train,  on  my  way  to  Godalming,  said 
Yes,  they  had  heard  nightingales  just  a  few  mo- 
ments before  on  their  way  to  the  station,  and 
described  the  spot,  so  I  could  find  it  if  I  returned 
that  way.  They  left  the  train  at  the  same  point  I 
did,  and  walked  up  the  street  in  advance  of  me.  I 
had  lost  sight  of  them  till  they  beckoned  to  me 
from  the  corner  of  the  street,  near  the  church, 
where  the  prospect  opens  with  a  view  of  a  near 
meadow  and  a  stream  shaded  by  pollard  willows. 
"We  heard  one  now,  just  there,"  they  said,  as  I 
came  up.  They  passed  on,  and  I  bent  my  ear 
eagerly  in  the  direction.  Then  I  walked  farther 
on,  following  one  of  those  inevitable  footpaths  to 
where  it  cuts  diagonally  througli  tlie  cemetery 
behind  the  old  church,  but  I  heard  nothing  save  a 
few  notes  of  the  thrush.      My  ear  was  too  critical 


92  FRESH   FIELDS 

and  exacting.  Then  I  sought  out  the  old  naturalist 
and  taxidermist  to  whom  I  had  a  card  from  the 
squire.  He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  racy  both  in 
look  and  speech,  and  kindly.  He  had  a  fine  collec- 
tion of  birds  and  animals,  in  which  he  took  great 
pride.  He  pointed  out  the  woodlark  and  the  black- 
cap to  me,  and  told  me  where  he  had  seen  and 
heard  them.  He  said  I  was  too  late  for  the  night- 
ingale, though  I  might  possibly  find  one  yet  in 
song.  But  he  said  she  grew  hoarse  late  in  the 
season,  and  did  not  sing  as  a  few  weeks  earlier. 
He  thought  our  cardinal  grosbeak,  which  he  called 
the  Virginia  nightingale,  as  fine  a  whistler  as  the 
nightingale  herself.  He  could  not  go  with  me  that 
day,  but  he  would  send  his  boy.  Summoning  the 
lad,  he  gave  him  minute  directions  where  to  take 
me,  —  over  by  Easing,  around  by  Shackerford 
church,  etc.,  a  circuit  of  four  or  five  miles.  Leav- 
ing the  picturesque  old  town,  we  took  a  road  over  a 
broad,  gentle  hill,  lined  with  great  trees,  —  beeches, 
elms,  oaks,  —  with  rich  cultivated  fields  beyond. 
The  air  of  peaceful  and  prosperous  human  occu- 
pancy which  everywhere  pervades  this  land  seemed 
especially  pronounced  through  all  this  section.  The 
sentiment  of  parks  and  lawns,  easy,  large,  basking, 
indifferent  of  admiration,  self-sufficing,  and  full, 
everywhere  prevailed.  The  road  was  like  the  most 
perfect  private  carriage-way.  Homeliness,  in  its 
true  sense,  is  a  word  that  applies  to  nearly  all  Eng- 
lish country  scenes;  homelike,  redolent  of  affection- 
ate care  and  toil,  saturated  with  rural  and  domestic 


A   HUNT   FOK   THE    NIGHTINGALE  93 

contentment;  beauty  without  pride,  order  without 
stiffness,  age  without  decay.  This  people  love  the 
country,  because  it  Avould  seem  as  if  the  country 
must  first  have  loved  them.  In  a  field  I  saw  for 
the  first  time  a  new  species  of  clover,  much  grown 
in  parts  of  England  as  green  fodder  for  horses.  The 
farmers  call  it  trifolium,  probably  TrifoUum  incar- 
natum.  The  head  is  two  or  three  inches  long,  and 
as  red  as  blood.  A  field  of  it  under  the  sunlirdit 
presents  a  most  brilliant  appearance.  As  we  walked 
along,  I  got  also  my  first  view  of  the  British  blue 
jay,  —  a  slightly  larger  bird  than  ours,  with  a 
hoarser  voice  and  much  duller  plumage.  Blue,  the 
tint  of  the  sky,  is  not  so  common,  and  is  not  found 
in  any  such  perfection  among  the  British  birds  as 
among  the  American.  My  boy  companion  was 
worthy  of  observation  also.  He  was  a  curious 
specimen,  ready  and  officious,  but,  as  one  soon 
found  out,  full  of  duplicity.  I  questioned  him 
about  himself.  "I  helps  he,  sir;  sometimes  I 
shows  people  about,  and  sometimes  I  does  errands. 
I  gets  three  a  week,  sir,  and  lunch  and  tea.  T 
lives  with  my  grandmother,  but  I  calls  her  mother, 
sir.  The  master  and  the  rector  they  gives  me  a 
character,  says  I  am  a  good,  honest  l)oy,  and  that 
it  is  well  I  went  to  school  in  my  youth.  I  am 
ten,  sir.  Last  year  I  had  the  measles,  sir,  and  I 
thought  I  should  die ;  but  I  got  hold  of  a  bottle  of 
medicine,  and  it  tasted  like  honey,  and  T  takes  the 
whole  of  it,  and  it  made  me  well,  sir.  I  never 
lies,  sir.      It  is  good  to  tell  the  truth. "      And  yet 


94  FRESH   FIELDS 

he  would  slide  off  into  a  lie  as  if  the  track  in  that 
direction  was  always  greased.  Indeed,  there  was 
a  kind  of  fluent,  unctuous,  obsequious  effrontery  in 
all  he  said  and  did.  As  the  day  was  warm  for  that 
climate,  he  soon  grew  tired  of  the  chase.  At  one 
point  we  skirted  the  grounds  of  a  large  house,  as 
thickly  planted  with  trees  and  shrubs  as  a  forest; 
many  birds  were  singing  there,  and  for  a  moment 
my  guide  made  me  believe  that  among  them  he 
recognized  the  notes  of  the  nightingale.  Failing  in 
this,  he  coolly  assured  me  that  the  swallow  that 
skimmed  along  the  road  in  front  of  us  was  the  night- 
ingale! We  presently  left  the  highway  and  took 
a  footpath.  It  led  along  the  margin  of  a  large 
plowed  field,  shut  in  by  rows  of  noble  trees,  the 
soil  of  which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  a 
garden  of  untold  generations.  Then  the  path  led 
through  a  wicket,  and  down  the  side  of  a  wooded 
hill  to  a  large  stream  and  to  the  hamlet  of  Easing. 
A  .boy  fishing  said  indifferently  that  he  had  heard 
nightingales  there  that  morning.  He  had  caught 
a  little  fish  which  he  said  was  a  gudgeon.  "Yes," 
said  my  companion  in  resjDonse  to  a  remark  of  mine, 
"they's  little;  but  you  can  eat  they  if  they  is 
little."  Then  we  went  toward  Shackerford  church. 
The  road,  like  most  roads  in  the  south  of  England, 
was  a  deep  trench.  The  banks  on  either  side  rose 
fifteen  feet,  covered  with  ivy,  moss,  wild  flowers, 
and  the  roots  of  trees.  England's  best  defense 
against  an  invading  foe  is  her  sunken  roads.  Whole 
armies  might  be  ambushed  in  these  trenches,  while 


A    HUNT    FOR    THE    NIGHTINGALE  '.15 

an  enemy  moving  across  the  open  plain  would  very 
often  find  himself  plunging  headlong  into  these 
hidden  pitfalls.  Indeed,  between  the  subterranean 
character  of  the  roads  in  some  places  and  the  high- 
walled  or  high-hedged  character  of  it  in  others,  the 
pedestrian  about  England  is  shut  out  from  much  he 
would  like  to  see.  I  used  to  envy  the  bicyclists, 
perched  high  upon  their  rolling  stilts,  lUit  tlie 
footpaths  escape  the  barriers,  and  one  need  walk 
nowhere  else  if  he  choose. 

Around  Shackerford  church  are  copses,  and  large 
pine  and  fir  woods.  The  place  was  full  of  birds. 
My  guide  threw  a  stone  at  a  small  bird  which  he 
declared  was  a  nightingale;  and  though  the  missile 
did  not  come  within  three  yards  of  it,  yet  he  said 
he  had  hit  it,  and  pretended  to  search  for  it  on  the 
ground.  He  must  needs  invent  an  opportunity  for 
lying.  I  told  him  here  I  had  no  further  use  for 
him,  and  he  turned  cheerfully  back,  with  my  shil- 
ling in  his  pocket.  I  spent  the  afternoon  about  the 
woods  and  copses  near  Shackerford.  The  day  was 
bright  and  the  air  balmy.  I  heard  the  cuckoo  call, 
and  the  chaffinch  sing,  both  of  which  I  considered 
good  omens.  The  little  chifFchaff  was  chifFchaffing 
in  the  pine  woods.  The  whitethroat,  with  his 
quick,  emphatic  Cheiv-che-rick  or  Che-rick-a-reir, 
flitted  and  ducked  and  hid  among  the  low  bushes 
by  the  roadside.  A  girl  told  me  she  had  heard  the 
nightingale  yesterday  on  her  way  to  Sunday-school, 
and  pointed  out  the  spot.  It  was  in  some  bushes 
near   a  house.      I   hovered   about   this  place  till  I 


96  FRESH   FIELDS 

was  afraid  the  woman,  who  saw  me  from  the  win- 
dow, would  think  I  had  some  designs  npon  her 
premises.  But  I  managed  to  look  very  indifferent 
or  abstracted  when  I  passed.  I  am  quite  sure  I 
heard  the  chiding,  guttural  note  of  the  bird  I  was 
after.  Doubtless  her  brood  had  come  out  that  very 
day.  Another  girl  had  heard  a  nightingale  on  her 
way  to  school  that  morning,  and  directed  me  to  the 
road;  still  another  pointed  out  to  me  the  white- 
throat  and  said  that  was  my  bird.  This  last  was 
a  rude  shock  to  my  faith  in  the  ornithology  of 
schoolgirls.  Finally,  I  found  a  laborer  breaking 
stone  by  the  roadside,  —  a  serious,  honest-faced 
man,  who  said  he  had  heard  my  bird  that  morning 
on  his  way  to  work ;  he  heard  her  every  morning, 
and  nearly  every  night,  too.  He  heard  her  last 
night  after  the  shower  (just  at  the  hour  when  my 
barber  and  I  were  trying  to  awaken  her  near  Hazle- 
mere),  and  she  sang  as  finely  as  ever  she  did. 
This  was  a  great  lift.  I  felt  that  I  could  trust  this 
man.  He  said  that  after  his  day's  work  was  done, 
that  is,  at  five  o'clock,  if  I  chose  to  accompany  him 
on  his  way  home,  he  would  show  me  where  he  had 
heard  the  bird.  This  I  gladly  agreed  to;  and, 
remembering  that  I  had  had  no  dinner,  I  sought 
out  the  inn  in  the  village  and  asked  for  something 
to  eat.  The  unwonted  request  so  startled  the  land- 
lord that  he  came  out  from  behind  his  inclosed  bar 
and  confronted  me  with  good-humored  curiosity. 
These  back-country  English  inns,  as  I  several  times 
found  to  my  discomfiture,  are  only  drinking  places 


A    HUNT    FOR    THE    NIGHTINGALE  97 

for  the  accommodation  of  local  customers,  mainly 
of  the  laboring  class.  Instead  of  standing  conspic- 
uously on  some  street  corner,  as  with  us,  they 
usually  stand  on  some  byway,  or  some  little  paved 
court  away  from  the  main  thoroughfare.  I  could 
have  plenty  of  beer,  said  the  landlord,  but  he  had 
not  a  mouthful  of  meat  in  the  house.  I  urged  my 
needs,  and  finally  got  some  rye-bread  and  cheese. 
With  this  and  a  glass  of  home-brewed  beer  I  was 
fairly  well  fortified.  At  the  appointed  time  I  met 
the  cottager  and  went  with  him  on  his  way  home. 
We  walked  two  miles  or  more  along  a  charming 
road,  full  of  wooded  nooks  and  arbor-like  vistas. 
Why  do  English  trees  always  look  so  sturdy,  and 
exhibit  such  massive  repose,  so  unlike,  in  this 
latter  respect,  to  the  nervous  and  agitated  expres- 
sion of  most  of  our  own  foliage?  Probably  because 
they  have  been  a  long  time  out  of  the  Avoods,  and 
have  had  plenty  of  room  in  which  to  develop  indi- 
vidual traits  and  peculiarities;  then,  in  a  deep  fer- 
tile soil,  and  a  climate  that  does  not  hurry  or  over- 
tax, they  grow  slow  and  last  long,  and  come  to 
have  the  picturesqueness  of  age  without  its  infirmi- 
ties. The  oak,  the  elm,  the  beech,  all  have  more 
striking  profiles  than  in  our  country. 

Presently  my  companion  pointed  out  to  me  a 
small  wood  below  the  road  that  had  a  wide  fringe 
of  bushes  and  saplings  connecting  it  with  a  meadow, 
amid  which  stood  the  tree-embowered  house  of  a 
city  man,  where  he  had  heard  the  nightingale  in 
the  morning;  and  then,  farther  along,  shoAved  me, 


98  FEESH   FIELDS 

near  his  own  cottage,  where  he  had  heard  one  the 
evening  before.  It  was  now  only  six  o'clock,  and 
I  had  two  or  three  hours  to  wait  before  I  could 
reasonably  expect  to  hear  her.  "It  gets  to  be  into 
the  hevening,"  said  my  new  friend,  "when  she  sings 
the  most,  you  know."  I  whiled  away  the  time  as 
best  I  could.  If  I  had  been  an  artist,  I  should 
have  brought  away  a  sketch  of  a  picturesque  old 
cottage  near  by,  that  bore  the  date  of  1688  on  its 
wall.  I  was  obliged  to  keep  moving  most  of  the 
time  to  keep  warm.  Yet  the  "no-see-'ems,"  or 
midges,  annoyed  me,  in  a  temperature  which  at 
home  would  have  chilled  them  buzzless  and  biteless. 
Mnally,  I  leaped  the  smooth  masonry  of  the  stone 
wall  and  ambushed  myself  amid  the  tall  ferns  under 
a  pine-tree,  where  the  nightingale  had  been  heard 
in  the  morning.  If  the  keeper  had  seen  me,  he 
would  probably  have  taken  me  for  a  poacher.  I 
sat  shivering  there  till  nine  o'clock,  listening  to  the 
cooing  of  the  wood-pigeons,  watching  the  motions 
of  a  jay  that,  I  suspect,  had  a  nest  near  by,  and 
taking  note  of  various  other  birds.  The  song- 
thrush  and  the  robins  soon  made  such  a  musical 
uproar  along  the  borders  of  a  grove,  across  an 
adjoining  field,  as  quite  put  me  out.  It  might  veil 
and  obscure  the  one  voice  I  wanted  to  hear.  The 
robin  continued  to  sing  quite  into  the  darkness. 
This  bird  is  related  to  the  nightingale,  and  looks 
and  acts  like  it  at  a  little  distance;  and  some  of  its 
notes  are  remarkably  piercing  and  musical.  When 
my  patience  was  about  exhausted,  I  was  startled  by 


A   HUNT   FOR    THE    NIGHTINGALE  99 

a  quick,  brilliant  call  or  whistle,  a  few  rods  from 
me,  that  at  once  recalled  my  barber  with  his  blade 
of  grass,  and  I  knew  my  long- sought  bird  was  inflat- 
ing her  throat.  How  it  woke  me  up!  It  had 
the  quality  that  startles;  it  pierced  the  gathering 
gloom  like  a  rocket.  Then  it  ceased.  Suspecting 
I  was  too  near  the  singer,  I  moved  away  cautiously, 
and  stood  in  a  lane  beside  the  wood,  where  a  loping 
hare  regarded  me  a  few  paces  away.  Then  my 
singer  struck  up  again,  but  I  could  see  did  not  let 
herself  out;  just  tuning  her  instrument,  I  thought, 
and  getting  ready  to  transfix  the  silence  and  the 
darkness.  A  little  later,  a  man  and  boy  came  up 
the  lane.  I  asked  them  if  that  was  the  nightingale 
singing;  they  listened,  and  assured  me  it  was  none 
other.  "Now  she's  on,  sir;  now  she 's  on.  Ah! 
but  she  don't  stick.  In  May,  sir,  they  makes  the 
woods  all  heccho  about  here.  jSTow  she  's  on  again; 
that's  her,  sir;  now  she's  off;  she  won't  stick." 
And  stick  she  would  not.  I  could  hear  a  hoarse 
wheezing  and  clucking  sound  beneath  her  notes, 
when  I  listened  intently.  The  man  and  boy  moved 
away.  I  stood  mutely  invoking  all  the  gentle 
divinities  to  spur  the  bird  on.  Just  then  a  bird 
like  our  hermit  thrush  came  quickly  over  the  hedge 
a  few  yards  below  me,  swept  close  past  my  face, 
and  back  into  the  thicket.  I  had  been  caught  lis- 
tening; the  offended  bird  had  found  me  taking 
notes  of  her  dry  and  M'orn-out  pipe  there  behind 
the  hedge,  and  the  concert  abruptly  ended;  not 
another  note;  not  a  whisper.      I  waited  a  long  time 


100  FRESH   FIELDS 

and  then  moved  off;  then  came  back,  implored 
the  outraged  bird  to  resume;  then  rushed  off,  and 
slammed  the  door,  or  rather  the  gate,  indignantly 
behind  me.  I  paused  by  other  shrines,  but  not  a 
sound.  The  cottager  had  told  me  of  a  little  village 
three  miles  beyond,  where  there  were  three  inns, 
and  where  I  could  probably  get  lodgings  for  the 
night.  I  walked  rapidly  in  that  direction;  com- 
mitted myself  to  a  footpath;  lost  the  trail,  and 
brought  up  at  a  little  cottage  in  a  wide  expanse  of 
field  or  common,  and  by  the  good  woman,  with  a 
babe  in  her  arms,  was  set  right  again.  I  soon 
struck  the  highway  by  the  bridge,  as  I  had  been 
told,  and  a  few  paces  brought  me  to  the  first  inn. 
It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  the  lights  were  just  about 
to  be  put  out,  as  the  law  or  custom  is  in  country 
inns.  The  landlady  said  she  could  not  give  me  a 
bed  ;  she  had  only  one  spare  room,  and  that  was  not 
in  order,  and  she  should  not  set  about  putting  it  in 
shape  at  that  hour;  and  she  was  short  and  sharp 
about  it,  too.  I  hastened  on  to  the  next  one. 
The  landlady  said  she  had  no  sheets,  and  the  bed 
was  damp  and  unfit  to  sleep  in.  I  protested  that 
I  thought  an  inn  was  an  inn,  and  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  travelers.  But  she  referred  me  to  the 
next  house.  Here  were  more  people,  and  more  the 
look  and  air  of  a  public  house.  But  the  wife  (the 
man  does  not  show  himself  on  such  occasions)  said 
her  daughter  had  just  got  married  and  come  home, 
and  she  had  much  company  and  could  not  keep  me. 
In  vain  I  urged  my  extremity;   there  was  no  room. 


A   HUNT   FOR    THE    NIGHTINGALE  101 

Could  I  have  something  to  eat,  then  ?  This  seemed 
doubtful,  and  led  to  consultations  in  the  kitchen; 
but,  finally,  some  bread  and  cold  meat  were  pro- 
duced. The  nearest  hotel  was  Godalming,  seven 
miles  distant,  and  I  knew  all  the  inns  would  be 
shut  up  before  I  could  get  there.  So  I  munched 
my  bread  and  meat,  consoling  myself  with  the 
thought  that  perhaps  this  was  just  the  ill  wind  that 
would  blow  me  the  good  I  was  in  quest  of.  I  saw 
no  alternative  but  to  spend  a  night  under  the  trees 
with  the  nightingales;  and  I  might  surprise  them 
at  their  revels  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 
Just  as  I  was  ready  to  congratulate  myself  on  the 
richness  of  my  experience,  the  landlady  came  in 
and  said  there  was  a  young  man  there  going  with 
a  "trap"  to  Godalming,  and  he  had  offered  to  take 
me  in.  I  feared  I  should  pass  for  an  escaped  luna- 
tic if  I  declined  the  offer ;  so  I  reluctantly  assented, 
and  we  were  presently  whirling  through  the  dark- 
ness, along  a  smooth,  winding  road,  toward  town. 
The  young  man  was  a  drummer;  was  from  Lincoln- 
shire, and  said  I  spoke  like  a  Lincolnshire  man.  I 
could  believe  it,  for  I  told  him  he  talked  more  like 
an  American  than  any  native  I  had  met.  The 
hotels  in  the  larger  towns  close  at  eleven,  and  I 
was  set  down  in  front  of  one  just  as  the  clock  was 
strikino-  that  hour.  I  asked  to  be  conducted  to  a 
room  at  once.  As  I  was  about  getting  in  bed  there 
was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  a  waiter  presented  me 
my  bill  on  a  tray.  "  Gentlemen  as  have  no  luggage, 
etc.,"  he  explained;  and  pretend  to  be  looking  for 


102  FRESH   FIELDS 

nightingales,  too!  Three-and-sixpence ;  two  shil- 
lings for  the  bed  and  one-and-six  for  service.  I  was 
out  at  five  in  the  morning,  before  any  one  inside 
was  astir.  After  much  trying  of  bars  and  doors,  I 
made  my  exit  into  a  paved  court,  from  which  a 
covered  way  led  into  the  street.  A  man  opened  a 
window  and  directed  me  how  to  undo  the  great 
door,  and  forth  I  started,  still  hoping  to  catch  my 
bird  at  her  matins.  I  took  the  route  of  the  day 
before.  On  the  edge  of  the  beautiful  plowed  field, 
looking  down  through  the  trees  and  bushes  into  the 
gleam  of  the  river  twenty  rods  below,  I  was  arrested 
by  the  note  I  longed  to  hear.  It  came  up  from 
near  the  water,  and  made  my  ears  tingle.  I  folded 
up  my  rubber  coat  and  sat  down  upon  it,  saying, 
Now  we  will  take  our  fill.  But  —  the  bird  ceased, 
and,  tarry  though  I  did  for  an  hour,  not  another 
note  reached  me.  The  prize  seemed  destined  to 
elude  me  each  time  just  as  I  thought  it  mine. 
Still,  I  treasured  what  little  I  had  heard. 

It  Avas  enough  to  convince  me  of  the  superior 
quality  of  the  song,  and  make  me  more  desirous 
than  ever  to  hear  the  complete  strain.  I  continued 
my  rambles,  and  in  the  early  morning  once  more 
hung  about  the  Shackerford  copses  and  loitered 
along  the  highways.  Two  schoolboys  pointed  out 
a  tree  to  me  in  which  they  had  heard  the  nightin- 
gale, on  their  way  for  milk,  two  hours  before.  But 
I  could  only  repeat  Emerson's  lines:  — 

"  Right  good-will  my  sinews  strung, 
But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 
To  hunt  up  their  shining  trails." 


A   HUNT    FOR   THE    NIGHTINGALE  103 

At  nine  o'clock  I  gave  over  the  pursuit  and 
returned  to  Easing  in  quest  of  breakfast.  Bringing 
up  in  front  of  the  large  and  comfortable-looking 
inn,  I  found  the  mistress  of  the  house  with  her 
daughter  engaged  in  washing  windows.  Perched 
upon  their  step-ladders,  they  treated  my  request  for 
breakfast  very  coldly;  in  fact,  finally  refused  to 
listen  to  it  at  all.  The  fires  were  out,  and  I  could 
not  be  served.  So  I  must  continue  my  walk  back 
to  Goldalming;  and,  in  doing  so,  I  found  that  one 
may  walk  three  miles  on  indignation  quite  as  easily 
as  upon  bread. 

In  the  afternoon  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  at 
Shotter  Mill,  and  made  ready  for  a  walk  to  Sel- 
borne,  twelve  miles  distant,  part  of  the  way  to  be 
accomplished  that  night  in  the  gloaming,  and  the 
rest  early  on  the  following  morning,  to  give  the 
nightingales  a  chance  to  make  any  reparation  they 
might  feel  inclined  to  for  the  neglect  with  which 
they  had  treated  me.  There  was  a  footpath  over  the 
hill  and  through  Leechmere  bottom  ro  Liphook, 
and  to  this,  with  the  sun  half  an  hour  iiigh,  I 
committed  myself.  The  feature  in  this  hill  scenery 
of  Surrey  and  Sussex  that  is  new  to  American  eyes 
is  given  by  the  furze  and  heather,  broad  black  or 
dark-brown  patches  of  which  sweep  over  the  high 
rolling  surfaces,  like  sable  mantles.  Tenrtyson's 
house  stands  amid  this  dusky  scenery,  a  few  miles 
east  of  Hazlemere.  The  path  led  through  a  large 
common,  partly  covered  Avith  grass  and  partly 
grown  up  to  furze,  —  another  un-American  feature. 


104  FRESH   FIELDS 

Doubly   precious   is   land   in  England,    and  yet   so 
much  of  it  given  to  parks  and  pleasure-grounds,  and 
so  much  of  it  left  unreclaimed  in  commons!     These 
commons  are  frequently  met  with;  about  Selborne 
they  are  miles  in  extent,  and  embrace  the  Hanger 
and    other   woods.      No    one    can    inclose  them,   or 
appropriate  them  to  his  own  use.      The  landed  pro- 
prietor of  whose  estates  they  form  a  part  cannot; 
they    belong    to    the    people,    to   the   lease-holders. 
The  villagers  and  others  who  own  houses  on  leased 
land    pasture    their    cows    upon    them,    gather    the 
furze,  and  cut  the  wood.      In  some  places  the  com- 
mons   belong   to  the   crown   and  are  crown  lands. 
These  large  uninclosed  spaces  often  give  a  free-and- 
easy   air    to   the   landscape   that   is   very   welcome. 
Near  the  top  of  the  hill   I  met  a  little  old  man 
nearly  hidden  beneath  a  burden  of  furze.      He  was 
backing    it    home    for    fuel    and    other     uses.      He 
paused   obsequious,    and   listened   to   my   inquiries. 
A  dwarfish  sort  of  man,  whose  ugliness  was  redo- 
lent of  the  humblest  chimney  corner.     Bent  beneath 
his  bulky  burden,  and  grinning  upon  me,    he  was 
a  visible  embodiment  of  the  poverty,  ignorance,  and, 
I  may  say,  the  domesticity  of  the  lowliest  peasant 
home.      I   felt  as  if  I  had  encountered  a  walking 
superstition,    fostered    beside    a    hearth   lighted   by 
furze  ifagots  and  by  branches  dropped  by  the  nest- 
ing rooks  and  ravens,  —  a  figure  half  repulsive  and 
half  alluring.      On  the  border  of  Leechmere  bottom 
I  sat  down  above  a  straggling  copse,  aflame  as  usual 
with  the  foxglove,    and  gave   eye   and   ear   to   the 


A   HUNT   FOR    THE   NIGHTINGALE  105 

scene.  A^Hiile  sitting  here,  I  saw  and  heard  for  the 
first  time  the  black-capped  warbler.  I  recognized 
the  note  at  once  by  its  brightness  and  strength,  and 
a  faint  suggestion  in  it  of  the  nightingale's.  But 
it  was  disappointing:  I  had  expected  a  nearer 
approach  to  its  great  rival.  The  bird  was  very  shy, 
but  did  finally  show  herself  fairly  several  times,  as 
she  did  also  near  Selborne,  where  I  heard  the  song 
oft  repeated  and  prolonged.  It  is  a  ringing,  ani- 
mated strain,  but  as  a  whole  seemed  to  me  crude, 
not  smoothly  and  finely  modulated.  I  could  name 
several  of  our  own  birds  that  surpass  it  in  pure 
music.  Like  ite  congeners,  the  garden  warbler  and 
the  w^hitethroat,  it  sings  with  great  emphasis  and 
strength,  but  its  song  is  silvern,  not  golden.  "Lit- 
tle birds  with  big  voices,"  one  says  to  himself  after 
having  heard  most  of  the  British  songsters.  My 
path  led  me  an  adventurous  course  through  the 
copses  and  bottoms  and  open  commons,  in  the  long 
twilight.  At  one  point  I  came  upon  three  young 
men  standing  together  and  watching  a  dog  that  was 
working  a  near  field,  —  one  of  them  probably  the 
squire's  son,  and  the  other  two  habited  like  la1)or- 
ers.  In  a  little  thicket  near  by  there  was  a  bril- 
liant chorus  of  bird  voices,  the  robin,  the  song- 
thrush,  and  the  blackbird,  all  vying  with  each 
other.  To  my  inquiry,  put  to  test  the  reliability 
of  the  young  countrymen's  ears,  they  replied  that 
\)ne  of  the  birds  I  heard  was  the  nightingale,  and, 
after  a  moment's  attention,  singled  out  the  robin 
as  the  bird  in  question.     This  incident  so  impressed 


106  FRESH   FIELDS 

me  that  I  paid  little  attention  to  the  report  of  the 
next  man  I  met,  who  said  he  had  heard  a  nightin- 
gale just  around  a  bend  in  the  road,  a  few  minutes' 
Avalk  in  advance  of  me.  At  ten  o'clock  I  reached 
Liphook.  I  expected  and  half  hoped  the  inn  would 
turn  its  back  upon  me  again,  in  which  case  I  pro- 
posed to  make  for  Wolmer  Forest,  a  few  miles  dis- 
tant, but  it  did  not.  Before  going  to  bed,  I  took 
a  short  and  hasty  walk  down  a  promising-looking 
lane,  and  again  met  a  couple  who  had  heard  night- 
ingales. "It  was  a  nightingale,  was  it  not,  Char- 
ley 1 " 

If  all  the  people  of  whom  I  inquired  for  nightin- 
gales in  England  could  have  been  together  and 
compared  notes,  they  probably  would  not  have  been 
long  in  deciding  that  there  was  at  least  one  crazy 
American  abroad. 

I  proposed  to  be  up  and  off  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  which  seemed  greatly  to  puzzle  mine  host. 
At  first  he  thought  it  could  not  be  done,  but  finally 
saw  his  way  out  of  the  dilemma,  and  said  he  would 
get  up  and  undo  the  door  for  me  himself.  The 
morning  was  cloudy  and  misty,  though  the  previous 
night  had  been  of  the  fairest.  There  is  one  thing 
they  do  not  have  in  England  that  we  can  boast  of 
at  home,  and  that  is  a  good  masculine  type  of 
weather :  it  is  not  even  feminine ;  it  is  childish  and 
puerile,  though  I  am  told  that  occasionally  there  is 
a  full-grown  storm.  But  I  saw  nothing  but  petu- 
lant little  showers  and  prolonged  juvenile  sulks. 
The  clouds  have  no  reserve,  no  dignity ;  if  there  is 


A    HUNT   FOR    THE    NIGHTINGALE  107 

a  drop  of  water  in  them  (and  there  generally  are 
several  drops),  out  it  comes.  The  prettiest  little 
showers  march  across  the  country  in  summer, 
scarcely  bigger  than  a  street  watering-cart;  some- 
times by  getting  over  the  fence  one  can  avoid  them, 
but  they  keep  the  haymakers  in  a  perpetual  flurry. 
There  is  no  cloud  scenery,  as  with  us,  no  mass  and 
solidity,  no  height  nor  depth.  The  clouds  seem 
low,  vague,  and  vapory,  —  immature,  indefinite,  in- 
consequential, like  youth. 

The  walk  to  Selborne  was  through  mist  and  light 
rain.  Few  bird  voices,  save  the  cries  of  the  lapwing 
and  the  curlew,  were  heard.  Shortly  after  leaving 
Liphook  the  road  takes  a  straight  cut  for  three  or 
four  miles  through  a  level,  black,  barren,  peaty 
stretch  of  country,  with  Wolmer  Forest  a  short 
distance  on  the  right.  Under  the  low-hanging 
clouds  the  scene  was  a  dismal  one,  —  a  black  earth 
beneath  and  a  gloomy  sky  above.  For  miles  the 
only  sign  of  life  was  a  baker's  cart  rattling  along 
the  smooth,  white  road.  At  the  end  of  this  soli- 
tude I  came  to  cultivated  fields,  and  a  little  hamlet 
and  an  inn.  At  this  inn  (for  a  wonder!)  I  got 
some  breakfast.  The  family  had  not  yet  had 
theirs,  and  I  sat  with  them  at  the  table,  and  had 
substantial  fare.  From  this  point  I  followed  a 
footpath  a  couple  of  miles  through  fields  and  parks. 
The  highways  for  the  most  part  seemed  so  narrow 
and  exclusive,  or  inclusive,  such  penalties  seemed 
to  attach  to  a  view  over  the  high  walls  and  hedges 
that  shut  me  in,  that  a  footpath  was  always  a  wel- 


108  FRESH   FIELDS 

come  escape  to  me.  I  opened  the  Avicket  or 
mounted  the  stile  without  much  concern  as  to 
whether  it  would  further  me  on  my  way  or  not. 
It  was  like  turning  the  flank  of  an  enemy.  These 
well-kept  fields  and  lawns,  these  cozy  nooks,  these 
stately  and  exclusive  houses  that  had  taken  such 
pains  to  shut  out  the  public  gaze,  —  from  the  f oot- 
j)ath  one  had  them  at  an  advantage,  and  could 
pluck  out  their  mystery.  On  striking  the  highway 
again,  I  met  the  postmistress,  stepping  briskly 
along  with  the  morning  mail.  Her  husband  had 
died,  and  she  had  taken  his  place  as  mail- carrier. 
England  is  so  densely  populated,  the  country  is  so 
like  a  great  city  suburb,  that  your  mail  is  brought 
to  your  door  everywhere,  the  same  as  in  town.  I 
walked  a  distance  with  a  boy  driving  a  little  old 
white  horse  with  a  cart-load  of  brick.  He  lived  at 
Hedleigh,  six  miles  distant;  he  had  left  there  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  had  heard  a  night- 
ingale. He  was  sure;  as  I  pressed  him,  he  de- 
scribed the  place  minutely.  "She  was  in  the  large 
fir-tree  by  Tom  Anthony's  gate,  at  the  south  end 
of  the  village."  Then,  I  said,  doubtless  I  shall 
find  one  in  some  of  Gilbert  White's  haunts;  but  I 
did  not.  I  spent  two  rainy  days  at  Selborne ;  I 
passed  many  chilly  and  cheerless  hours  loitering 
along  those  wet  lanes  and  dells  and  dri23j)ing  hang- 
ers, wooing  both  my  bird  and  the  spirit  of  the  gen- 
tle parson,  but  apparently  without  getting  very 
near  to  either.  When  I  think  of  the  place  now,  I 
see  its  hurrying  and  anxious  haymakers  in  the  field 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE    NIGHTINGALE  109 

of  mown  grass,  and  hear  the  cry  of  a  child  that  sat 
in  the  hay  back  of  the  old  church,  and  cried  by  the 
hour  while  its  mother  was  busy  with  her  rake  not 
far  off.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  hay  had  dried 
off  a  little,  and  scores  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
but  mostly  women,  had  flocked  to  the  fields  to  rake 
it  up.  The  hay  is  got  together  inch  by  inch,  and 
every  inch  is  fought  for.  They  first  rake  it  up 
into  narrow  swaths,  each  person  taking  a  strip  about 
a  yard  wide.  If  they  hold  the  ground  thus  gained, 
when  the  hay  dries  an  hour  or  two  longer,  they 
take  another  hitch,  and  thus  on  till  they  get  it  into 
the  cock  or  "carry"  it  from  the  windrow.  It  is 
usually  nearly  worn  out  with  handling  before  they 
get  it  into  the  rick. 

From  Selborne  I  went  to  Alton,  along  a  road  that 
was  one  prolonged  rifle-pit,  but  smooth  and  hard 
as  a  rock;  thence  by  train  back  to  London.  To 
leave  no  ground  for  self- accusation  in  future,  on 
the  score  of  not  having  made  a  thorough  effort  to 
hear  my  songster,  I  the  next  day  made  a  trip  north 
toward  Cambridge,  leaving  the  train  at  Hitchin,  a 
large  picturesque  old  town,  and  thought  myself  in 
just  the  right  place  at  last.  I  found  a  road  between 
the  station  and  the  town  proper  called  Nightingale 
Lane,  famous  for  its  songsters.  A  man  who  kept 
a  thrifty-looking  inn  on  the  corner  (where,  by  the 
way,  I  was  again  refused  both  bed  and  board)  said 
they  sang  night  and  morning  in  the  trees  opposite. 
He  had  heard  them  the  night  before,  but  had  not 
noticed  them  that  morning.      He  often  sat  at  night 


110  FRESH   FIELDS 

with  his  friends,  with  open  windows,  listening  to 
the  strain.  He  said  he  had  tried  several  tim*es  to 
hold  his  breath  as  long  as  the  bird  did  in  uttering 
certain  notes,  but  could  not  do  it.  This,  I  knew, 
was  an  exaggeration ;  but  I  waited  eagerly  for  night- 
fall, and,  when  it  came,  paced  the  street  like  a  patrol- 
man, and  paced  other  streets,  and  lingered  about 
other  likely  localities,  but  caught  nothing  but 
neuralgic  pains  in  my  shoulder.  I  had  no  better 
success  in  the  morning,  and  here  gave  over  the 
pursuit,  saying  to  myself.  It  matters  little,  after 
all;  I  have  seen  the  country  and  had  some  object 
for  a  walk,  and  that  is  sufficient. 

Altogether  I  heard  the  bird  less  than  five  min- 
utes, and  only  a  few  bars  of  its  song,  but  enough 
to  satisfy  me  of  the  surprising  quality  of  the  strain. 

It  had  the  master  tone  as  clearly  as  Tennyson 
or  any  great  prima  donna  or  famous  orator  has  it. 
Indeed,  it  was  just  the  same.  Here  is  the  com- 
plete artist,  of  whom  all  these  other  birds  are  but 
hints  and  studies.  Bright,  startling,  assured,  of 
great  compass  and  power,  it  easily  dominates  all 
other  notes;  the  harsher  chiiT-r-T-T-rg  notes  serve 
as  foil  to  her  surpassing  brilliancy.  Wordsworth, 
among  the  poets,  has  hit  off  the  song  nearest :  — 

"  Those  notes  of  thine,  —they  pierce  and  pierce; 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  !  " 

I  could  easily  understand  that  this  bird  might 
keep  people  awake  at  night  by  singing  near  their 
houses,  as  I  was  assured  it  frequently  does;  there 
is  something  in  the  strain  so  startling  and  awaken- 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE    NIGHTINGALE  111 

ing.  Its  start  is  a  vivid  flash  of  sound.  On  the 
whole,  a  high-bred,  courtly,  chivalrous  song;  a 
song  for  ladies  to  hear  leaning  from  embowered 
windows  on  moonlight  nights;  a  song  for  royal 
parks  and  groves,  —  and  easeful  but  impassioned 
life.  We  have  no  bird-voice  so  piercing  and 
loud,  with  such  flexibility  and  compass,  such  full- 
throated  harmony  and  long-draAvn  cadences;  though 
we  have  songs  of  more  melody,  tenderness,  and 
plaintiveness.  None  but  the  nightingale  could  have 
inspired  Keats's  ode,  — that  longing  for  self-forget- 
fulness  and  for  the  oblivion  of  the  world,  to  escape 
the  fret  and  fever  of  life. 

"And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim." 


T 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIllDS 

HE  charm  of  the  songs  of  birds,  like  that  of  a 
nation's  popular  airs  and  hymns,  is  so  little 
a  question  of  intrinsic  musical  excellence,  and  so 
largely  a  matter  of  association  and  suggestion,  or  of 
subjective  coloring  and  reminiscence,  that  it  is  per- 
haps entirely  natural  for  every  people  to  think  their 
own  feathered  songsters  the  best.  What  music 
would  there  not  be  to  the  homesick  American,  in 
Europe,  in  the  simple  and  plaintive  note  of  our 
bluebird,  or  the  ditty  of  our  song  sparrow,  or  the 
honest  carol  of  our  robin ;  and  what,  to  the  European 
traveler  in  this  country,  in  the  burst  of  the  black- 
cap, or  the  redbreast,  or  the  whistle  of  the  merlin! 
The  relative  merit  of  bird-songs  can  hardly  be  setr 
tied  dogmatically;  I  suspect  there  is  very  little  of 
what  we  call  music,  or  of  what  could  be  noted  on 
the  musical  scale,  in  even  the  best  of  them;  they 
are  parts  of  nature,  and  their  power  is  in  the  degree 
in  which  they  speak  to  our  experience. 

When  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  who  is  a  lover  of  the 
birds  and  a  good  ornithologist,  was  in  this  country, 
he  got  the  impression  that  our  song-birds  were 
inferior  to  the  British,  and  he  refers  to  others  of 


114  FRESH   FIELDS 

his  countrymen  as  of  like  opinion.  No  wonder  he 
thought  our  robin  inferior  in  power  to  the  missel 
thrush,  in  variety  to  the  mavis,  and  in  melody  to 
the  blackbird !  Robin  did  not  and  could  not  sing 
to  his  ears  the  song  he  sings  to  ours.  Then  it  is 
very  likely  true  that  his  grace  did  not  hear  the 
robin  in  the  most  opportune  moment  and  season,  or 
when  the  contrast  of  his  song  with  the  general 
silence  and  desolation  of  nature  is  the  most  striking 
and  impressive.  The  nightingale  needs  to  be  heard 
at  night,  the  lark  at  dawn  rising  to  meet  the  sun; 
and  robin,  if  you  would  know  the  magic  of  his 
voice,  should  be  heard  in  early  spring,  when,  as 
the  sun  is  setting,  he  carols  steadily  for  ten  or  fif- 
teen minutes  from  the  top  of  some  near  tree. 
There  is  perhaps  no  other  sound  in  nature;  patches 
of  snow  linger  here  and  there;  the  trees  are  naked 
and  the  earth  is  cold  and  dead,  and  this  contented, 
hopeful,  reassuring,  and  withal  musical  strain, 
poured  out  so  freely  and  deliberately,  fills  the  void 
with  the  very  breath  and  presence  of  the  spring. 
It  is  a  simple  strain,  well  suited  to  the  early  season ; 
there  are  no  intricacies  in  it,  but  its  honest  cheer 
and  directness,  with  its  slight  plaintive  tinge,  like 
that  of  the  sun  gilding  the  treetops,  go  straight  to 
the  heart.  The  compass  and  variety  of  the  robin's 
powers  are  not  to  be  despised  either.  A  German 
who  has  great  skill  in  the  musical  education  of  birds 
told  me  what  I  was  surprised  to  hear,  namely,  that 
our  robin  surpasses  the  European  blackbird  in  capa- 
bilities of  voice. 


ENGLISH    AND   AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS      115 

The  duke  does  not  mention  by  name  all  the 
birds  he  heard  while  in  this  country.  He  was  evi- 
dently influenced  in  his  opinion  of  them  by  the  fact 
that  our  common  sandpiper  appeared  to  be  a  silent 
bird,  whereas  its  British  cousin,  the  sandpiper  of 
the  lakes  and  streams  of  the  Scottish  Highlands,  is 
very  loquacious,  and  the  "male  bird  has  a  continu- 
ous and  most  lively  song."  Either  the  duke  must 
have  seen  our  bird  in  one  of  its  silent  and  medita- 
tive moods,  or  else,  in  the  wilds  of  Canada  where 
his  grace  speaks  of  having  seen  it,  the  sandpiper  is 
a  more  taciturn  bird  than  it  is  in  the  States.  True, 
its  call-notes  are  not  incessant,  and  it  is  not  prop- 
erly a  song-bird  any  more  than  the  British  species 
is;  but  it  has  a  very  pretty  and  pleasing  note  as  it 
flits  up  and  down  our  summer  streams,  or  runs 
along  on  their  gray,  pebbly,  and  bowlder- strewn 
shallows.  I  often  hear  its  calling  and  piping  at 
night  during  its  spring  migratings.  Indeed,  we 
have  no  silent  bird  that  I  am  aware  of,  though  our 
pretty  cedar-bird  has,  perhaps,  the  least  voice  of 
any.  A  lady  writes  me  that  she  has  heard  the 
hummingbird  sing,  and  says  she  is  not  to  be  put 
down,  even  if  I  were  to  prove  by  the  anatomy  of 
the  bird's  vocal  organs  that  a  song  was  impossible 
to  it. 

Argyll  says  that,  though  he  was  in  the  woods  and 
fields  of  Canada  and  of  the  States  in  the  richest 
moment  of  the  spring,  he  heard  little  of  that  burst 
of  song  which  in  England  comes  from  the  blackcap, 
and  the  garden  warbler,   and  the  whitethroat,  and 


116  FRESH  FIELDS 

the  reed  warbler,  and  the  common  wren,  and 
(locally)  from  the  nightingale.  There  is  no  lack 
of  a  burst  of  song  in  this  country  (except  in  the 
remote  forest  solitudes)  during  the  richest  moment 
of  the  spring,  say  from  the  1st  to  the  20th  of  May, 
and  at  times  till  near  midsummer;  moreover,  more 
bird- voices  join  in  it,  as  I  shall  point  out,  than  in 
Britain;  but  it  is  probably  more  fitful  and  intermit- 
tent, more  confined  to  certain  hours  of  the  day,  and 
probably  proceeds  from  throats  less  loud  and  viva- 
cious than  that  with  which  our  distinguished  critic 
was  familiar.  The  ear  hears  best  and  easiest  what 
it  has  heard  before.  Properly  to  apprehend  and 
appreciate  bird-songs,  especially  to  disentangle  them 
from  the  confused  murmur  of  nature,  requires  more 
or  less  familiarity  with  them.  If  the  duke  had 
passed  a  season  with  us  in  some  one  place  in  the 
country,  in  New  York  or  New  England,  he  would 
probably  have  modified  his  views  about  the  silence 
of  our  birds. 

One  season,  early  in  May,  I  discovered  an  Eng- 
lish skylark  in  full  song  above  a  broad,  low  meadow 
in  the  midst  of  a  landscape  that  possessed  features 
attractive  to  a  great  variety  of  our  birds.  Every 
morning  for  many  days  I  used  to  go  and  sit  on  the 
brow  of  a  low  hill  that  commanded  the  field,  or  else 
upon  a  gentle  swell  in  the  midst  of  the  meadow 
itself,  and  listen  to  catch  the  song  of  the  lark. 
The  maze  and  tangle  of  bird-voices  and  bird-cho- 
ruses through  which  my  ear  groped  its  way  search- 
ing for  the  new  song  can  be  imagined  when  I  say 


ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS      117 

that  within  hearing  there  were  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  different  kinds  of  songsters,  all  more  or  less 
in  full  tune.  If  their  notes  and  calls  could  have 
been  materialized  and  made  as  palpable  to  the  eye 
as  they  were  to  the  ear,  I  think  they  would  have 
veiled  the  landscape  and  darkened  the  day.  There 
were  big  songs  and  little  songs,  —  songs  from  the 
trees,  the  bushes,  the  ground,  the  air,  —  warbles, 
trills,  chants,  musical  calls,  and  squeals,  etc.  Near 
by  in  the  foreground  were  the  catbird  and  the  brown 
thrasher,  the  former  in  the  bushes,  the  latter  on  the 
top  of  a  hickory.  These  birds  are  related  to  the 
mockingbird,  and  may  be  called  performers;  their 
songs  are  a  series  of  vocal  feats,  like  the  exhibition 
of  an  acrobat;  they  throw  musical  somersaults,  and 
turn  and  twist  and  contort  themselves  in  a  very  edi- 
fying manner,  with  now  and  then  a  ventriloquial 
touch.  The  catbird  is  the  more  shrill,  supple,  and 
feminine;  the  thrasher  the  louder,  richer,  and  more 
audacious.  The  mate  of  the  latter  had  a  nest, 
which  I  found  in  a  field  under  the  spreading  ground- 
juniper.  From  several  points  along  the  course  of 
a  bushy  little  creek  there  came  a  song,  or  a  melody 
of  notes  and  calls,  that  also  put  me  out,  —  the  tipsy, 
hodge-podge  strain  of  the  polyglot  chat,  a  strong, 
olive-backed,  yellow  -  breasted,  black  -  billed  bird, 
with  a  voice  like  that  of  a  jay  or  a  crow  that  had 
been  to  school  to  a  robin  or  an  oriole,' — a  performer 
sure  to  arrest  your  ear  and  sure  to  elude  your  eye. 
There  is  no  bird  so  afraid  of  being  seen,  or  fonder 
of  being  heard. 


118  FRESH   FIELDS 

The  golden  voice  of  the  wood  thrush  that  came 
to  me  from  the  border  of  the  woods  on  my  right 
was  no  hindrance  to  the  ear,  it  was  so  serene, 
liquid,  and,  as  it  were,  transparent:  the  lark's  song 
has  nothing  in  common  with  it.  Neither  were  the 
songs  of  the  many  bobolinks  in  the  meadow  at  all 
confusing,  —  a  brief  tinkle  of  silver  bells  in  the 
grass,  while  I  was  listening  for  a  sound  more  like 
the  sharp  and  continuous  hum  of  silver  wheels  upon 
a  pebbly  beach.  Certain  notes  of  the  red- shoul- 
dered starlings  in  the  alders  and  swamp  maples  near 
by,  the  distant  barbaric  voice  of  the  great  crested 
flycatcher,  the  jingle  of  the  kingbird,  the  shrill, 
metallic  song  of  the  savanna  sparrow,  and  the  pier- 
cing call  of  the  meadowlark,  all  stood  more  or  less 
in  the  way  of  the  strain  I  was  listening  for,  because 
every  one  had  a  touch  of  that  burr  or  guttural  hum 
of  the  lark's  song.  The  ear  had  still  other  notes 
to  contend  with, -as  the  strong,  bright  warble  of  the 
tanager,  the  richer  and  more  melodious  strain  of 
the  rose- breasted  grosbeak,  the  distant,  brief,  and 
emphatic  song  of  the  chewink,  the  child-like  con- 
tented warble  of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  animated 
strain  of  the  goldfinch,  the  softly  ringing  notes  of 
the  bush  sparrow,  the  rapid,  circling,  vivacious 
strain  of  the  purple  finch,  the  gentle  lullaby  of  the 
song  sparrow,  the  pleasing  "wichery, "  "wichery" 
of  the  yellow-throat,  the  clear  whistle  of  the  oriole, 
the  loud  call  of  the  high-hole,  the  squeak  and  chat- 
ter of  swallows,  etc.  But  when  the  lark  did  rise 
in  full  song,  it  was  easy  to  hear  him  athwart  all 


ENGLISH    AND   AMERICAN    SONG-BIRDS       119 

these  various  sounds,  first,  because  of  the  sense  of 
altitude  his  strain  had,  —  its  skyward  character,  — 
and  then  because  of  its  loud,  aspirated,  penetrating, 
unceasing,  jubilant  quality.  It  cut  its  way  to  the 
ear  like  something  exceeding  swift,  sharp,  and 
copious.  It  overtook  and  outran  every  other  sound ; 
it  had  an  undertone  like  the  humming  of  multitu- 
dinous wheels  and  spindles.  Now  and  then  some 
turn  would  start  and  set  off  a  new  combination  of 
shriller  or  of  graver  notes,  but  all  of  the  same  pre- 
cipitate, out-rusliing  and  down-pouring  character; 
not,  on  the  whole,  a  sweet  or  melodious  song,  but 
a  strong  and  blithe  one. 

The  duke  is  abundantly  justified  in  saying  that 
we  have  no  bird  in  this  country,  at  least  east  of  the 
Mississij^pi,  that  can  fill  the  place  of  the  skylark. 
Our  high,  wide,  bright  skies  seem  his  proper  field, 
too.  His  song  is  a  pure  ecstasy,  untouched  by  any 
plaintiveness,  or  pride,  or  mere  hilarity,  —  a  well- 
spring  of  morning  joy  and  blitheness  set  high  above 
the  fields  and  downs.  Its  effect  is  well  suggested 
in  this  stanza  of  Wordsworth :  — 

" Up  with  me!  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

Singing,  singing, 
AYith  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  hnd 
That  spot  Avhich  seems  so  to  tliy  mind! " 

But  judging  from  Gilbert  White's  and  Barring- 
ton's  lists,  I  should  say  that  our  bird-choir  was  a 
larger  one,  and  embraced  more  good  songsters,  than 
the  British. 


120  FRESH   FIELDS 

"White  names  twenty-two  species  of  birds  that 
sing  in  England  during  the  spring  and  summer, 
including  the  swallow  in  the  list.  A  list  of  the 
spring  and  summer  songsters  in  New  York  and 
New  England,  without  naming  any  that  are  charac- 
teristically wood-birds,  like  the  hermit  thrush  and 
veery,  the  two  wagtails,  the  thirty  or  more  war- 
blers, and  the  solitary  vireo,  or  including  any  of 
the  birds  that  have  musical  call-notes,  and  by  some 
are  denominated  songsters,  as  the  bluebird,  the 
sandpiper,  the  swallow,  the  red- shouldered  starling, 
the  pewee,  the  high-hole,  and  others,  would  embrace 
more  names,  though  perhaps  no  songsters  equal  to 
the  lark  and  nightingale,  to  wit:  the  robin,  the 
catbird,  the  Baltimore  oriole,  the  orchard  oriole, 
the  song  sparrow,  the  w^ood  sparrow,  the  vesper 
sparrow,  the  social  sparrow,  the  swamp  sparrow, 
the  purple  finch,  the  wood  thrush,  the  scarlet  tan- 
ager,  the  indigo- bird,  the  goldfinch,  the  bobolink, 
the  summer  yellowbird,  the  meadowdark,  the  house 
wren,  the  marsh  wren,  the  brown  thrasher,  the 
chewink,  the  chat,  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  white- 
eyed  vireo,  the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  and  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak. 

The  British  sparrows  are  for  the  most  part  song- 
less.  What  a  ditty  is  that  of  our  song  sparrow, 
rising  from  the  garden  fence  or  the  roadside  so 
early  in  March,  so  prophetic  and  touching,  with 
endless  variations  and  pretty  trilling  effects;  or  the 
song  of  the  vesper  sparrow,  full  of  the  repose  and 
the  wild  sweetness  of  the  fields;  or  the  strain   of 


ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS      121 

the  little  bush  sparrow,  suddenly  projected  upon 
the  silence  of  the  fields  or  of  the  evening  twiliglit, 
and  delighting  the  ear  as  a  beautiful  scroll  deliglits 
the  eye!  The  white-crowned,  the  white-throated, 
and  the  Canada  sparrows  sing  transiently  sjDring  and 
fall;  and  I  have  heard  the  fox  sparrow  in  April, 
when  his  song  haunted  my  heart  like  some  bright, 
sad,  delicious  memory  of  youth,  —  the  richest  and 
most  moving  of  all  sparrow-songs. 

Our  wren- music,  too,  is  superior  to  anything  of 
the  kind  in  the  Old  World,  because  we  have  a 
greater  variety  of  wren-songsters.  Our  house  wren 
is  inferior  to  the  British  house  wren,  but  our  marsh 
wren  has  a  lively  song;  while  our  winter  wren,  in 
sprightliness,  mellowness,  plaintiveness,  and  execu- 
tion, is  surpassed  by  but  few  songsters  in  the  world. 
The  summer  haunts  of  this  wren  are  our  hi^h,  cool, 
northern  woods,  where,  for  the  most  part,  his  music 
is  lost  on  the  primeval  solitude. 

The  British  flycatcher,  according  to  White,  is  a 
silent  bird,  while  our  species,  as  the  phoebe-bird, 
the  Avood  pewee,  the  kingbird,  the  little  green  fly- 
catcher, and  others,  all  have  notes  more  or  less 
lively  and  musical.  The  great  crested  flycatcher 
has  a  harsh  voice,  but  the  pathetic  and  silvery  note 
of  the  wood  pewee  more  than  makes  up  for  it. 
White  says  the  golden-crowned  wren  is  not  a  song- 
bird in  Great  Britain.  The  corresponding  species 
here  has  a  pleasing  though  not  remarkable  song,  wliich 
is  seldom  heard,  however,  except  in  its  breeding 
haunts  in  the  north.      But  its  congener,  the  ruby- 


122  FKESH   FIELDS 

crowned  kinglet,  has  a  rich,  delicious,  and  prolonged 
warble,  which  is  noticeable  in  the  Northern  States 
for  a  week  or  two  in  April  or  May,  while  the  bird 
pauses  to  feed  on  its  way  to  its  summer  home. 

There  are  no  vireos  in  Europe,  nor  birds  that 
answer  to  them.  With  us,  they  contribute  an  im- 
portant element  to  the  music  of  our  groves  and 
woods.  There  are  few  birds  I  should  miss  more 
than  the  red-eyed  vireo,  with  his  cheerful  musical 
soliloquy,  all  day  and  all  summer,  in  the  maples 
and  locusts.  It  is  he,  or  rather  she,  that  builds 
the  exquisite  basket  nest  on  the  ends  of  the  low, 
leafy  branches,  suspending  it  between  two  twigs. 
The  warbling  vireo  has  a  stronger,  louder  strain, 
more  continuous,  but  not  quite  so  sweet.  The  soli- 
tary vireo  is  heard  only  in  the  deep  woods,  while 
the  Avhite-eyed  is  still  more  local  or  restricted  in 
its  range,  being  found  only  in  wet,  bushy  places, 
whence  its  vehement,  varied,  and  brilliant  song  is 
sure  to  catch  the  dullest  ear. 

The  goldfinches  of  the  two  countries,  though 
differing  in  plumage,  are  perhaps  pretty  evenly 
matched  in  song;  while  our  purple  finch,  or  linnet, 
I  am  persuaded,  ranks  far  above  the  English  lin- 
net, or  lintie,  as  the  Scotch  call  it.  In  compass,  in 
melody,  in  sprightliness,  it  is  a  remarkable  songster. 
Indeed,  take  the  finches  as  a  family,  they  certainly 
furnish  more  good  songsters  in  this  country  than  in 
Great  Britain.  They  furnish  the  staple  of  our  bird- 
melody,  including  in  the  family  the  tanager  and 
the  grosbeaks,  while  in  Europe  the  warblers  lead. 


ENGLISH   AND   AMEKICAN    SONG-BIllDS       123 

White  names  seven  finches  in  his  listj  and  Barring- 
ton  includes  eight,  none  of  them  very  noted  song- 
sters, except  the  linnet.  Our  list  would  include 
the  sparrows  above  named,  and  the  indigo- bird,  the 
goldfinch,  the  purple  finch,  the  scarlet  tanager,  the 
rose-breasted  grosbeak,  the  blue  grosbeak,  and  the 
cardinal  bird.  Of  these  birds,  all  except  the  fox 
sparrow  and  the  blue  grosbeak  are  familiar  summer 
songsters  throughout  tlie  Middle  and  Eastern  States. 
The  indigo-bird  is  a  midsummer  and  an  all-summer 
songster  of  great  brilliancy.  So  is  the  tanager.  I 
judge  there  is  no  European  thrush  that,  in  the  pure 
charm  of  melody  and  hymn-like  serenity  and  spirit- 
uality, equals  our  Avood  and  hermit  thrushes,  as 
there  is  no  bird  there  that,  in  simple  lingual  excel- 
lence, approaches  our  bobolink. 

The  European  cuckoo  makes  more  music  than 
ours,  and  their  robin  redbreast  is  a  better  singer 
than  the  allied  species,  to  wit,  the  bluebird,  with 
us.  But  it  is  mainly  in  the  larks  and  warblers  that 
the  European  birds  are  richer  in  songsters  than  are 
ours.  We  have  an  army  of  small  wood-warblers, 
—  no  less  than  forty  species,  —  but  most  of  them 
have  faint  chattering  or  lisping  songs  that  escape  all 
but  the  most  attentive  ear,  and  then  they  spend  the 
summer  far  to  the  north.  Our  two  wagtails  are  our 
most  brilliant  warblers,  if  we  except  the  kinglets, 
which  are  Northern  birds  in  summer,  and  the  Ken- 
tucky warbler,  which  is  a  Southern  bird;  but  they 
probably  do  not  match  the  English  blackcap,  or 
whitethroat,    or  garden  warbler,  to  say  nothing  of 


124  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  nightingale,  though  Audubon  thought  our  large- 
billed  water-thrush,  or  wagtail,  equaled  that  famous 
bird.  It  is  certainly  a  brilliant  songster,  but  most 
provokingly  brief;  the  ear  is  arrested  by  a  sudden 
joyous  burst  of  melody  proceeding  from  the  dim 
aisles  along  which  some  wild  brook  has  its  way, 
but  just  as  you  say  "Listen!"  it  ceases.  I  hear 
and  see  the  bird  every  season  along  a  rocky  stream 
that  flows  through  a  deep  chasm  amid  a  wood  of 
hemlock  and  pine.  As  I  sit  at  the  foot  of  some 
cascade,  or  on  the  brink  of  some  little  dark  eddying 
pool  above  it,  this  bird  darts  by  me,  up  or  down 
the  stream,  or  alights  near  me,  upon  a 'rock  or  stone 
at  the  edge  of  the  water.  Its  speckled  breast,  its 
dark  olive-colored  back,  its  teetering,  mincing  gait, 
like  that  of  a  sandpij)er,  and  its  sharp  chit^  like  the 
click  of  two  pebbles  under  water,  are  characteristic 
features.  Then  its  quick,  ringing  song,  which  you 
are  sure  presently  to  hear,  suggests  something  so 
bright  and  silvery  that  it  seems  almost  to  light  up, 
for  a  brief  moment,  the  dim  retreat.  If  this  strain 
Were  only  sustained  and  prolonged  like  the  nightin- 
gale's, there  would  be  good  grounds  for  Audubon's 
comparison.  Its  cousin,  the  wood  wagtail,  or  golden- 
crowned  thrush  of  the  older  ornithologists,  and 
golden- crowned  accentor  of  the  later,  —  a  common 
bird  in  all  our  woods,  —  has  a  similar  strain,  which 
it  delivers  as  it  were  surreptitiously,  and  in  the 
most  precipitate  manner,  while  on  the  wing,  high 
above  the  treetops.  It  is  a  kind  of  wood-lark,  prac- 
ticing and  rehearsing  on  the  sly.     When  the  modest 


ENGLISH    AND   AMERICAN    SONG-BIRDS      125 

songster  is  ready  to  come  out  and  give  all  a  chance 
to  hear  his  full  and  completed  strain,  the  European 
wood-lark  will  need  to  look  to  his  laurels.  These 
two  birds  are  our  best  warblers,  and  yet  they  are 
probably  seldom  heard,  except  by  persons  who  know 
and  admire  them.  If  the  two  kinglets  could  also 
be  included  in  our  common  New  England  summer 
residents,  our  warbler  music  would  only  pale  before 
the  song  of  Philomela  herself.  The  English  red- 
start evidently  surpasses  ours  as  a  songster,  and  we 
have  no  bird  to  match  the  English  wood-lark  above 
referred  to,  which  is  said  to  be  but  little  inferior 
to  the  skylark;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  besides  the 
sparrows  and  vireos,  already  mentioned,  they  have 
no  songsters  to  match  our  oriole,  our  orchard  star- 
ling, our  catbird,  our  brown  thrasher  (second  only 
to  the  mockingbird),  our  chewink,  our  snowbird,  our 
cow-bunting,  our  bobolink,  and  our  yellow-breasted 
chat.  As  regards  the  swallows  of  the  two  countries, 
the  advantage  is  rather  on  the  side  of  the  American. 
Our  chimney  swallow,  with  his  incessant,  silvery, 
rattling  chipper,  evidently  makes  more  music  than 
the  corresponding  house  swallow  of  Europe ;  while  our 
purple  martin  is  not  represented  in  the  Old  World 
avifauna  at  all.  And  yet  it  is  probably  true  that  a 
dweller  in  England  hears  more  bird-music  througli- 
out  the  year  than  a  dAveller  in  this  country,  and  tliat 
which,  in  some  respects,  is  of  a  superior  order. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  not  so  much  of  it  lost 
"upon  the  desert  air,"  upon  the  wild,  unlistening 
solitudes.      The  English   birds   are   more    domestic 


126  FRESH   FIELDS 

and  familiar  than  ours ;  more  directly  and  intimately 
associated  with  man;  not,  as  a  class,  so  withdrawn 
and  lost  in  the  great  void  of  the  wild  and  the  unre- 
claimed.     England  is  like  a  continent  concentrated, 
—  ajl  the  waste  land,  the  barren  stretches,  the  wil- 
dernesses,   left  out.      The  birds    are    brought   near 
together  and    near  to   man.      Wood-birds  here  are 
house   and    garden    birds    there.      They    find    good 
pasturage  and   protection   everywhere.      A   land  of 
parks,  and  gardens,  and  hedge-rows,  and  game  pre- 
serves, and  a  climate  free  from  violent  extremes,  — 
what  a  stage  for  the  birds,  and  for  enhancing  the 
effect  of  their  songs!     How  prolific  they  are,  how 
abundant!     If     our     songsters    were     hunted    and 
trapped  by   bird-fanciers   and   others,    as   the   lark, 
and  goldfinch,  and  mavis,  etc.,  are  in  England,  the 
race  would  soon  become  extinct.      Then,  as  a  rule, 
it  is  probably  true  that  the   British  birds  as  a  class 
have  more  voice  than  ours  have,  or  certain  qualities 
that  make  their  songs  more  striking  and  conspicu- 
ous, such  as  greater  vivacity  and  strength.      They 
are  less  bright  in  plumage,  but  more  animated  in 
voice.      They  are  not  so  recently  out  of  the  woods, 
and  their   strains    have    not    that    elusiveness    and 
plaintiveness  that  ours  have.      They  sing  with  more 
confidence  and  copiousness,  and  as  if  they,  too,  had 
been  touched  by  civilization. 

Then  they  sing  more  hours  in  the  day,  and  more 
days  in  the  year.  This  is  owing  to  the  milder  and 
more  equable  climate.  I  heard  the  skylark  singing 
above  the  South  Downs  in  October,  apparently  with 


ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    SONG-BIRDS       127 

full  spring  fervor  and  delight.  The  wren,  the 
robin,  and  the  wood-lark  sing  throughout  the  win- 
ter, and  in  midsummer  there  are  perhaps  more 
vocal  throats  than  here.  The  heat  and  blaze  of  our 
midsummer  sun  silence  most  of  our  birds. 

There  are  but  four  songsters  that  I  hear  with  any 
regularity  after  the  meridian  of  summer  is  past, 
namely,  the  indigo-bird,  the  wood  or  bush  sparrow, 
the  scarlet  tanager,  and  the  red-eyed  vireo,  while 
White  names  eight  or  nine  August  songsters,  though 
he  speak  of  the  yellow-hammer  only  as  persistent. 
His  dictum,  that  birds  sing  as  long  as  nidification 
goes  on,  is  as  true  here  as  in  England.  Hence  our 
wood  thrush  will  continue  in  song  over  into  August 
if,  as  frequently  happens,  its  June  nest  has  been 
broken  up  by  the  crows  or  squirrels. 

The  British  songsters  are  more  vocal  at  night 
than  ours.  White  says  the  grasshopper  lark  chirps 
all  night  in  the  height  of  summer.  The  sedge-bird 
also  sings  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  A  stone 
thrown  into  the  bushes  where  it  is  roosting,  after 
it  has  become  silent,  will  set  it  going  again.  Other 
British  birds,  besides  the  nightingale,  sing  more  or 
less  at  night. 

In  this  country  the  mockingbird  is  the  only  regu- 
lar night-singer  we  have.  Other  songsters  break 
out  occasionally  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  but  so 
briefly  that  it  gives  one  the  impression  that  they 
sing  in  their  sleep.  Thus  I  have  heard  the  hair- 
bird,  or  chippie,  the  kingbird,  the  oven-bird,  and 
the  cuckoo  fitfully  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  like  a 
schoolboy  laughing  in  his  dreams. 


128  FRESH   FIELDS 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  certain  aspects  in 
which  our  songsters  aj)pear  to  advantage.  That 
they  surpass  the  European  species  in  sweetness,  ten- 
derness, and  melody  I  have  no  doubt;  and  that  our 
mockingbird,  in  his  native  haunts  in  the  South, 
surpasses  any  bird  in  the  world  in  fluency,  variety, 
and  execution  is  highly  probable.  That  the  total 
effect  of  his  strain  may  be  less  winning  and  persua- 
sive than  the  nocturne  of  the  nightingale  is  the 
only  question  in  my  mind  about  the  relative  merits 
of  the  two  songsters.  Bring  our  birds  together  as 
they  are  brought  together  in  England,  let  all  our 
shy  wood-birds  —  like  the  hermit  thrush,  the  veery, 
the  winter  wren,  the  wood  wagtail,  the  water  wag- 
tail, the  many  warblers,  the  several  vireos  —  be- 
come birds  of  the  groves  and  orchards,  and  there 
would  be  a  burst  of  song  indeed. 

Bates,  the  naturalist  of  the  Amazon,  speaks  of 
a  little  thrush  he  used  to  hear  in  his  rambles  that 
showed  the  American  quality  to  which  I  have 
referred.  "It  is  a  much  smaller  and  plainer-colored 
bird,"  he  says,  "than  our  [the  English]  thrush,  and 
its  song  is  not  so  loud,  varied,  or  so  long  sustained; 
here  the  tone  is  of  a  sweet  and  plaintive  quality, 
which  harmonizes  well  with  the  wild  and  silent 
woodlands,  where  alone  it  is  heard  in  the  mornings 
and  evenings  of  sultry,  tropical  days." 

I  append  parallel  lists  of  the  better-known  Ameri- 
can and  English  song-birds,  marking  in  each  with 
an  asterisk,  those  that  are  probably  the  better  song- 
sters ;  followed  by  a  list  of  other  American  songsters. 


ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN    SONG-BIRDS       129 


some  of  which  are  not  represented  in  the  British  avi- 
fauna :  — 


Old  England. 

*  Wood-lark. 
Song-thrush. 

*  Jenny  Wren. 
Willow  wren. 

*  Redbreast. 

*  Redstart. 
Hedge-sparrow. 
Yellow-hammer. 

*  Skylark. 
Swallow. 

*  Blackcap. 
Titlark. 

*  Blackbird. 
Whitethroat. 
Goldfinch. 
Greenfinch. 
Reed-sparrow. 
Linnet. 

*  Chaffinch. 

*  Nightingale. 
Missel  thrush. 
Great  titmouse. 


New  England. 
Meadowlark. 

*  Wood  thrush. 
House  wren. 

*  Winter  wren. 
Bluebird. 
Redstart. 

*  Song  sparrow. 

*  Fox  sparrow. 
Bobolink. 
Swallow. 
Wood  wagtail. 
Titlark  (spring  and  fall). 
Robin. 

*  Maryland  yellow-throat. 
Goldfinch. 

*  Wood  sparrow. 

*  Vesper  sparrow. 

*  Purple  finch. 
Indigo-bird. 
Water  wagtail. 

*  Hermit  thrush. 
Savanna  sparrow. 
Chickadee. 


Bullfinch. 

New  England  song-birds  not  included  in  the  above 


are: 


Red-eyed  vireo. 
White-eyed  vireo. 
Brotherly  love  vireo. 
Solitary  vireo. 
Yellow-throated  vireo. 
Scarlet  tanager. 
Baltimore  oriole. 


Orchard  oriole. 

Catbird. 

Brown  thrasher. 

Chewink. 

Rose-breasted  grosbeak. 

Purple  martin. 

Mockingbird  (occasionally). 


Besides  these,  a  dozen  or  more  species  of  the 
Mniotiltid*,  or  wood-warblers,  might  be  named, 
some  of  which,  like  the  black-throated  green  war- 
bler, the  speckled  Canada  warbler,  the  hooded  war- 
bler, the  mourning  ground-warbler,  and  the  yellow 
warbler,  are  fine  songsters. 


VI 

IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH   BIRDS 

npHE  foregoing  chapter  was  written  previous  to 
my  last  visit  to  England,  and  when  my  know- 
ledge of  the  British  song-birds  was  mainly  from 
report,  and  not  from  personal  observation.  I  had 
heard  the  skylark,  and  briefly  the  robin,  and 
snatches  of  a  few  other  bird  strains,  while  in  that 
country  in  the  autumn  of  1871;  but  of  the  full 
spring  and  summer  chorus,  and  the  merits  of  the 
individual  songsters,  I  knew  little  except  through 
such  writers  as  White,  Broderip,  and  Barrington. 
Hence,  when  I  found  myself  upon  British  soil  once 
more,  and  the  birds  in  the  height  of  their  May 
jubilee,  I  improved  my  opportunities,  and  had  very 
soon  traced  every  note  home.  It  is  not  a  long  and 
difficult  lesson ;  there  is  not  a  great  variety  of  birds, 
and  they  do  not  hide  in  woods  and  remote  corners. 
You  find  them  nearly  all  wherever  your  walk  leads 
you.  And  how  they  do  sing!  how  loud  and  pier- 
cing their  notes  are !  Not  a  little  of  the  pleasure  I 
felt  arose  from  the  fact  that  the  birds  sang  much 
as  I  expected  them  to,  much  as  they  ought  to  have 
sung  according  to  my  previous  views  of  their  merits 
and  qualities,  when  contrasted  with  our  own  song- 
sters. 


132  FRESH   FIELDS 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  my  ears  were  beset 
that  bright  May  morning,  two  days  after  my  arrival 
at  Glasgow,  when  I  walked  from  Ayr  to  Alloway, 
a  course  of  three  miles  in  one  of  the  most  charmins 
and  fertile  rural  districts  in  Scotland.  It  was  as 
warm  as  mid-June,  and  the  country  had  the  most 
leafy  and  luxuriant  June  aspect.  Above  a  broad 
stretch  of  undulating  meadow -land  on  my  right  the 
larks  were  in  full  song.  These  I  knew;  these  I 
welcomed.  What  a  sound  up  there,  as  if  the  sun- 
shine were  vocal !  A  little  farther  along,  in  a  clover 
field,  I  heard  my  first  corn-crake.  "Crex,  crex, 
crex,"  came  the  harsh  note  out  of  the  grass,  like 
the  rasping  sound  of  some  large  insect,  and  I  knew 
the  bird  at  once.  But  when  I  came  to  a  beautiful 
grove  or  wood,  jealously  guarded  by  a  wall  twelve 
feet  high  (some  fine  house  concealed  back  there,  I 
saw  by  the  entrance),  what  a  throng  of  strange 
songs  and  calls  beset  my  ears!  The  concert  was  at 
its  height.  The  wood  fairly  rang  and  reverberated 
with  bird-voices.  How  loud,  how  vivacious,  almost 
clamorous,  they  sounded  to  me!  I  paused  in 
delightful  bewilderment. 

Two  or  three  species  of  birds,  as  I  afterwards 
found,  were  probably  making  all  the  music  I  heard, 
and  of  these,  one  species  was  contributing  at  least 
two  thirds  of  it.  At  Alloway  I  tarried  nearly  a 
week,  putting  up  at  a  neat  little  inn 

"Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin',  clear," 
and  I  was  not  long  in  analyzing  this  spirited  bird- 
choir,    and  tracing    each   note   home    to    its   proper 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME    ENGLISH    BIRDS      133 

source.      It  was,   indeed,   a   burst   of   song,   as   the 
Duke  of  Argyll  had  said,  but  the  principal  singer 
his   grace   does   not   mention.       Indeed,    nothing  I 
had  read,  or  could  find  in  the  few  popular  treatises 
on   British   ornithology   I   carried   about  with   me, 
had  given  me  any  inkling  of  which  was  the  most 
abundant    and    vociferous    English    song-bird,    any 
more  than  what  I  had  read  or  heard  had  given  me 
any  idea  of  which  was  the  most  striking  and  con- 
spicuous wild  flower,  or  which  the  most  universal 
weed.     Now  the  most  abundant  song-bird  in  Britain 
is  the  chaJBfinch,  the  most  conspicuous  wild  flower 
(at  least  in  those  parts  of  the  country  I  saw)  is  the 
foxglove,    and    the    most    ubiquitous   weed    is    the 
nettle.      Throughout  the  month  of  May,  and  prob- 
ably during   all   the   spring   months,    the   chaffinch 
makes  two  thirds  of  the  music  that  ordinarily  greets 
the  ear  as  one  walks  or  drives  about  the  country. 
In  both  England  and  Scotland,  in  my  walks  up  to 
the  time  of  my  departure,  the  last  of  July,  I  seemed 
to  see  three  chaffinches  to  one  of  any  other  species 
of  bird.      It  is  a  permanent  resident  in  this  island, 
and    in   winter    appears    in    immense   flocks.      The 
male  is  the  prettiest  of  British  song-birds,  with  its 
soft  blue-gray  back,  barred  wings,  and  pink  breast 
and  sides.      The  Scotch  call  it  shilfa.      At  Alloway 
there  was  a  shilfa  for  every  tree,  and  its  hurried  and 
incessant  notes  met  and  intersected  each  other  from 
all  directions  every  moment  of  the  day,  like  wave- 
lets on  a  summer  pool.      So  many  birds,  and  each 
one  so  persistent  and  vociferous,  accounts  for  their 


134  FRESH   FIELDS 

part  in  the  choir.  The  song  is  as  loud  as  that  of 
our  orchard  starling,  and  is  even  more  animated. 
It  begins  with  a  rapid,  wren-like  trill,  which 
quickly  becomes  a  sharp  jingle,  then  slides  into  a 
warble,  and  ends  with  an  abrupt  flourish.  I  have 
never  heard  a  song  that  began  so  liltingly  end  with 
such  a  quick,  abrupt  emphasis.  The  last  note  often 
sounds  like  "whittier,"  uttered  with  great  sharp- 
ness; but  one  that  used  to  sing  in  an  apple-tree 
over  my  head,  day  after  day  there  by  the  Doon, 
finished  its  strain  each  time  with  the  sharp  ejacula- 
tion, "Sister,  right  here."  Afterwards,  whenever 
I  met  a  shilfa,  I  could  hear  in  its  concluding  note 
this  pointed  and  almost  impatient  exclamation  of 
"Sister,  right  here."  The  song,  on  the  whole,  is 
a  pleasing  one,  and  very  characteristic;  so  rapid, 
incessant,  and  loud.  The  bird  seemed  to  be  held 
in  much  less  esteem  in  Britain  than  on  the  Conti- 
nent, where  it  is  much  sought  after  as  a  caged  bird. 
In  Germany,  in  the  forest  of  Thuringia,  the  bird  is 
in  such  quest  that  scarcely  can  one  be  heard.  A 
common  workman  has  been  known  to  give  his  cow 
for  a  favorite  songster.  The  chaffinch  has  far  less 
melody  and  charm  of  song  than  some  of  our  finches, 
notably  our  purple  finch;  but  it  is  so  abundant  and 
so  persistent  in  song  that  in  quantity  of  music  it 
far  excels  any  singer  we  have. 

Next  to  the  chaffinch  in  the  volume  of  its  song, 
and  perhaps  in  some  localities  surpassing  it,  is  the 
song-thrush.  I  did  not  find  this  bird  upon  the 
Doon,  and  but  rarely  in  other  places  in  Scotland, 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    SOME   ENGLISH    BIRDS      135 

but  in  the  south  of  England  it  leads  the  choir.      Its 
voice    can    be    heard    above    all    others.      But   one 
would  never  suspect  it  to  be  a  thrush.      It  has  none 
of    the    flute-like    melody    and    serene,    devotional 
quality  of  our  thrush  strains.      It  is  a  shrill  whis- 
tling polyglot.      Its  song  is  much  after  the  manner 
of  that  of  our  brown  thrasher,    made  up  of  vocal 
attitudes  and  poses.     It  is  easy  to  translate  its  strain 
into  various  words   or  short  ejaculatory  sentences. 
It  sings  till  the  darkness  begins  to  deepen,  and  I 
could  fancy  what  the  young  couple  walking  in  the 
gloaming    would    hear    from    the     trees     overhead. 
"Kiss  her,    kiss   her;   do  it,    do   it;   be   quick,    be 
quick;   stick  her  to  it,    stick  her  to  it;   that  was 
neat,  that  was  neat ;  that  will  do, "  with  many  other 
calls  not  so  explicit,  and  that  might  sometimes  be 
construed  as  approving  nods  or  winks.      Sometimes 
it  has  a  staccato  whistle.     Its  performance  is  always 
animated,   loud,    and  clear,    but  never,    to  my  ear, 
melodious,    as  the  poets  so   often   have   it.      Even 

Burns  says,  — 

"  The  mavis  mild  and  melloAv." 

Drayton  hits  it  when  he  says,  — 

"The  throstle  with  shrill  sharps,"  etc. 
Ben  Jonson's  "lusty  throstle  "  is  still  better.  It  is 
a  song  of  great  strength  and  unbounded  good  cheer ; 
it  proceeds  from  a  sound  heart  and  a  merry  throat. 
There  is  no  touch  of  plaintiveness  or  melancholy  in 
it;  it  is  as  expressive  of  health  and  good  digestion 
as  the  crowing  of  the  cock  in  the  morning.  When 
I  was  hunting  for  the  nightingale,  the  thrush  fre- 


136  FKESH   FIELDS 

quently  made  such  a  din  just  at  dusk  as  to  be  a 
great  annoyance.  At  Kew,  where  I  passed  a  few 
weeks,  its  shrill  pipe  usually  woke  me  in  the 
morning. 

A  thrush  of  a  much  mellower  strain  is  the  black- 
bird, which  is  our  robin  cut  in  ebony.  His  golden 
bill  gives  a  golden  touch  to  his  song.  It  was  the 
most  leisurely  strain  I  heard.  Amid  the  loud, 
vivacious,  workaday  chorus,  it  had  an  easeful,  dolce 
far  niente  effect.  I  place  the  song  before  that  of 
our  robin,  where  it  belongs  in  quality,  but  it  falls 
short  in  some  other  respects.  It  constantly  seemed 
to  me  as  if  the  bird  was  a  learner  and  had  not  yet 
mastered  his  art.  The  tone  is  fine,  but  the  execu- 
tion is  labored;  the  musician  does  not  handle  his 
instrument  with  deftness  and  confidence.  It  seems 
as  if  the  bird  were  trying  to  whistle  some  simple 
air,  and  never  quite  succeeding.  Parts  of  the  song 
are  languid  and  feeble,  and  the  whole  strain  is 
wanting  in  the  decision  and  easy  fulfillment  of  our 
robin's  song.  The  bird  is  noisy  and  tuneful  in  the 
twilight  like  his  American  congener. 

Such  British  writers  on  birds  and  bird  life  as  I 
have  been  able  to  consult  do  not,  it  seems  to  me, 
properly  discriminate  and  ajDpreciate  the  qualities 
and  merits  of  their  own  songsters.  The  most  melo- 
dious strain  I  heard,  and  the  only  one  that  exhib- 
ited to  the  full  the  best  qualities  of  the  American 
songsters,  proceeded  from  a  bird  quite  unknown  to 
fame,  in  the  British  Islands  at  least.  I  refer  to 
the  willow  warbler,   or  willow  wren,   as  it  is  also 


IMPRESSIONS    OF   SOME    ENGLISH    BIRDS      137 

called,  —  a  little  brown  bird,  that  builds  a  dome- 
shaped  nest  upon  the  ground  and  lines  it  with 
feathers.  White  says  it  has  a  "sweet,  plaintive 
note,"  which  is  but  half  the  truth.  It  has  a  loner, 
tender,  delicious  warble,  not  wanting  in  strength 
and  volume,  but  eminently  pure  and  sweet,  —  the 
song  of  the  chaffinch  refined  and  idealized.  The 
famous  blackcap,  which  I  heard  in  the  south  of 
England  and  again  in  France,  falls  far  short  of  it 
in  these  respects,  and  only  surpasses  it  in  strength 
and  brilliancy.  The  song  is,  perhaps,  in  the  minor 
key,  feminine  and  not  masculine,  but  it  touches  the 

heart. 

"That  strain  again;  it  had  a  dying  fall." 

The  song  of  the  willow  warbler  has  a  dying  fall; 
no  other  bird-song  is  so  touching  in  this  respect. 
It  mounts  up  round  and  full,  then  runs  down  the 
scale,  and  expires  upon  the  air  in  a  gentle  murmur. 
I  heard  the  bird  everywhere;  next  to  the  chaffinch, 
its  voice  greeted  my  ear  oftenest;  yet  many  country 
people  of  whom  I  inquired  did  not  know  the  bird, 
or  confounded  it  with  some  other.  It  is  too  fine 
a  song  for  the  ordinary  English  ear;  there  is  not 
noise  enough  in  it.  The  whitethroat  is  much  more 
famous;  it  has  a  louder,  coarser  voice;  it  sings 
with  great  emphasis  and  assurance,  and  is  a  much 
better  John  Bull  than  the  little  willow  warbler. 

I  could  well  understand,  after  being  in  England 
a  few  days,  why,  to  English  travelers,  our  songsters 
seem  inferior  to  their  own.  They  are  much  less 
loud   and   vociferous,    less   abundant   and    familiar; 


138  FRESH    FIELDS 

one  needs  to  woo  them  more;  they  are  less  recently 
out  of  the  wilderness;  their  songs  have  the  delicacy 
and  wildness  of  most  woodsy  forms,  and  are  as  plain- 
tive as  the  whistle  of  the  wind.  They  are  not  so 
happy  a  race  as  the  English  songsters,  as  if  life  had 
more  trials  for  them,  as  doubtless  it  has  in  their 
enforced  migrations  and  in  the  severer  climate  with 
which  they  have  to  contend. 

When  one  hears  the  European  cuckoo  he  regrets 
that  he  has  ever  heard  a  cuckoo  clock.  The  clock 
has  stolen  the  bird's  thunder;  and  when  you  hear 
the  rightful  owner,  the  note  has  a  second-hand, 
artificial  sound.  It  is  only  another  cuckoo  clock 
off  there  on  the  hill  or  in  the  grove.  Yet  it  is  a 
cheerful  call,  with  none  of  the  solitary  and  monkish 
character  of  our  cuckoo's  note;  and,  as  it  comes 
early  in  spring,  I  can  see  how  much  it  must  mean 
to  native  ears. 

I  found  that  the  only  British  song-bird  I  had 
done  injustice  to  in  my  previous  estimate  was  the 
wren.  It  is  far  superior  to  our  house  wren.  It 
approaches  very  nearly  our  winter  wren,  if  it  does 
not  equal  it.  Without  hearing  the  two  birds  to- 
gether, it  would  be  impossible  to  decide  which  was 
the  better  songster.  Its  strain  has  the  same  gush- 
ing, lyrical  character,  and  the  shape,  color,  and 
manner  of  the  two  birds  are  nearly  identical.  It 
is  very  common,  sings  everywhere,  and  therefore 
contributes  much  more  to  the  general  entertainment 
than  does  our  bird.  Barrington  marks  the  wren 
far  too  low  in  his  table  of  the  comparative  merit 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME    ENGLISH   BIRDS      139 

of  British  song-birds;  he  denies  it  mellowness  and 
plaintiveness,  and  makes  it  high  only  in  spriglitli- 
ness,  a  fact  that  discredits  his  whole  table.  He 
makes  the  thrush  and  blackbird  equal  in  the  two 
qualities  first  named,  which  is  equally  wide  of  the 
mark. 

The  English  robin  is  a  better  songster  than  I 
expected  to  find  him.  The  poets  and  writers  have 
not  done  him  justice.  He  is  of  the  royal  line  of 
the  nightingale,  and  inherits  some  of  the  qualities 
of  that  famous  bird.  His  favorite  hour  for  singing 
is  the  gloaming,  and  I  used  to  hear  him  the  last  of 
all.  His  song  is  peculiar,  jerky,  and  spasmodic, 
but  abounds  in  the  purest  and  most  piercing  tones 
to  be  heard,  —  piercing  from  their  smoothness,  in- 
tensity, and  fullness  of  articulation;  rapid  and 
crowded  at  one  moment,  as  if  some  barrier  had  sud- 
denly given  way,  then  as  suddenly  pausing,  and 
scintillating  at  intervals,  bright,  tapering  shafts  of 
sound.  It  stops  and  hesitates,  and  blurts  out  its 
notes  like  a  stammerer;  but  when  they  do  come 
they  are  marvelously  clear  and  pure.  I  have  heard 
green  hickory  branches  thrown  into  a  fierce  blaze 
jet  out  the  same  fine,  intense,  musical  sounds  on 
tbe  escape  of  the  imprisoned  vapors  in  the  hard 
wood  as  characterize  the  robin's  song. 

One  misses  along  English  fields  and  highways 
the  tender  music  furnished  at  home  by  our  spar- 
rows, and  in  the  woods  and  groves  the  plaintive 
cries  of  our  pewees  and  the  cheerful  soliloquy  of 
our    red-eyed    vireo.      The    English    sparrows    and 


140  FRESH   FIELDS 

buntings  are  harsh- voiced,  and  their  songs,  when 
they  have  songs,  are  crude.  The  yellow-hammer 
comes  nearest  to  our  typical  sparrow,  it  is  very 
common,  and  is  a  persistent  songster,  but  the  song 
is  slight,  like  that  of  our  savanna  sparrow  —  scarcely 
more  than  the  chirping  of  a  grasshopper.  In  form 
and  color  it  is  much  like  our  vesper  sparrow,  except 
that  the  head  of  the  male  has  a  light  yellow  tinge. 

The  greenfinch  or  green  linnet  is  an  abundant  bird 
everywhere,  but  its  song  is  less  pleasing  than  that 
of  several  of  our  finches.  The  goldfinch  is  very 
rare,  mainly,  perhaps,  because  it  is  so  persistently 
trapped  by  bird-fanciers;  its  song  is  a  series  of 
twitters  and  chirps,  less  musical  to  my  ear  than 
that  of  our  goldfinch,  especially  when  a  flock  of 
the  latter  are  congregated  in  a  tree  and  inflating 
their  throats  in  rivalry.  Their  golden  -  crowned 
kinglet  has  a  fine  thread-like  song,  far  less  than 
that  of  our  kinglet,  less  even  than  that  of  our  black 
and  white  creeper.  The  nuthatch  has  not  the  soft, 
clear  call  of  ours,  and  the  various  woodpeckers  fig- 
ure much  less;  there  is  less  wood  to  peck,  and  they 
seem  a  more  shy  and  silent  race.  I  saw  but  one 
in  all  my  walks,  and  that  was  near  Wolmer  Forest. 
I  looked  in  vain  for  the  wood-lark;  the  country 
people  confound  it  with  the  pipit.  The  blackcap 
warbler  I  found  to  be  a  rare  and  much  overpraised 
bird.  The  nightingale  is  very  restricted  in  its 
range,  and  is  nearly  silent  by  the  middle  of  June. 
I  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  find  it  in  full  song 
after    the    seventeenth    of    the    month,   as    I    have 


IMPEESSIONS    OF    SOME    ENGLISH    BIllDS       141 

described  in  a  previous  chapter,  but  failed.  Aiid 
the  garden  warbler  is  by  no  means  found  in  every 
garden ;  probably  I  did  not  hear  it  more  than  twice. 

The  common  sandpiper,  I  should  say,  was  more 
loquacious  and  musical  than  ours.  I  heard  it  on 
the  Highland  lakes,  when  its  happy  notes  did  indeed 
almost  run  into  a  song,  so  continuous  and  bright 
and  joyful  were  they. 

One  of  the  first  birds  I  saw,  and  one  of  the  most 
puzzling,  was  the  lapwing  or  pewit.  I  observed  it 
from  the  car  window,  on  my  way  down  to  Ayr,  a 
large,  broad-winged,  awkward  sort  of  bird,  like  a 
cross  between  a  hawk  and  an  owl,  swooping  and 
gamboling  in  the  air  as  the  train  darted  past.  It 
is  very  abundant  in  Scotland,  especially  on  the 
moors  and  near  the  coast.  In  the  Highlands  I  saw 
them  from  the  top  of  the  stage-coach,  running  about 
the  fields  with  their  young.  The  most  graceful 
and  pleasing  of  birds  upon  the  ground,  about  the 
size  of  the  pigeon,  now  running  nimbly  along,  now 
pausing  to  regard  you  intently,  crested,  ringed, 
white-bellied,  glossy  green-backed,  with  every  move- 
ment like  visible  music.  But  the  moment  it 
launches  into  the  air  its  beauty  is  gone;  the  wings 
look  round  and  clumsy,  like  a  mittened  hand,  the 
tail  very  short,  the  head  and  neck  drawn  back,  with 
nothing  in  the  form  or  movement  that  suggests  the 
plover  kind.  It  gambols  and  disports  itself  like 
a  great  bat,  which  its  outlines  suggest.  On  the 
moors  I  also  saw  the  curlew,  and  shall  never  forget 
its  wild,  musical  call. 


142  FRESH   FIELDS 

Nearly  all  the  British  bird-voices  have  more  of 
a  burr  in  them  than  ours  have.      Can  it  be  that, 
like  the  people,  they  speak  more  from  the  throat  1 
It  is  especially  noticeable  in  the  crow  tribe,  —  in 
the  rook,  the  jay,   the  jackdaw.      The  rook  has  a 
hoarse,    thick  caw,  — not    so  clearly    and    roundly 
uttered    as    that    of    our    crow.      The   swift   has   a 
wheezy,  catarrhal  squeak,  in  marked  contrast  to  the 
cheery  chipper  of  our  swift.      In  Europe  the  chim- 
ney swallow  builds  in  barns,  and  the  barn  swallow 
builds    in    chimneys.      The    barn    swallow,    as    we 
would  call   it,  —  chimney   swallow,  as   it  is   called 
there,  —  is   much    the    same   in   voice,  color,  form, 
flight,    etc.,    as  our  bird,    while  the  swift  is  much 
larger  than  our  chimney  swallow  and  has  a  forked 
tail.      The  martlet,  answering  to  our  cliff  swallow, 
is  not  so  strong  and  ruddy  looking  a  bird  as  our 
species,    but  it  builds  much  the  same,    and  has  a 
similar  note.      It  is  more  plentiful  than  our  swal- 
low.     I  was  soon  struck  with  the  fact  that  in  the 
main  the  British  song-birds  lead  up  to  and  culminate 
in  two  species,  namely,  in  the  lark  and  the  nightin- 
gale.     In  these  two  birds  all  that  is  characteristic 
in  the  other  songsters  is  gathered  up  and  carried  to 
perfection.      They  crown  the  series.     Nearly  all  the 
finches  and  pipits  seem  like  rude  studies  and  sketches 
of   the   skylark,    and   nearly    all   the   warblers   and 
thrushes    point    to    the    nightingale;    their    powers 
have  fully  blossomed  in  her.      There  is  nothing  in 
the  lark's  song,  in  the  quality  or  in  the  manner  of 
it,  that  is  not  sketched  or  suggested  in  some  voice 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH   BIRDS      143 

lower  in  the  choir,  and  the  tone  and  compass  of  the 
warblers  mount  in  regular  gradation  from  the  clink- 
ing note  of  the  chiffchaff  up  to  the  nightingale. 
Several  of  the  warblers  sing  at  night,  and  several 
of  the  constituents  of  the  lark  sing  on  the  wing. 
On  the  lark's  side,  the  birds  are  remarkable  for 
gladness  and  ecstacy,  and  are  more  creatures  of  tlie 
light  and  of  the  open  spaces;  on  the  side  of  the 
nightingale  there  is  more  pure  melody,  and  more  a 
love  for  the  twilight  and  the  privacy  of  arboreal  life. 
Both  the  famous  songsters  are  representative  as  to 
color,  exhibiting  the  prevailing  gray  and  dark  tints. 
A  large  number  of  birds,  I  noticed,  had  the  two 
white  quills  in  the  tail  characteristic  of  the  lark. 

I  found  that  I  had  overestimated  the  bird-music 
to  be  heard  in  England  in  midsummer.  It  appeared 
to  be  much  less  than  our  own.  The  last  two  or 
three  weeks  of  July  were  very  silent:  the  only  bird 
I  was  sure  of  hearing  in  my  walks  was  the  yellow- 
hammer  ;  while,  on  returning  home  early  in  August, 
the  birds  made  such  music  about  my  house  that 
they  woke  me  up  in  the  morning.  The  song  spar- 
row and  bush  sparrow  were  noticeable  till  in  Sep- 
tember, and  the  red-eyed  vireo  and  warbling  vireo 
were  heard  daily  till  in  October. 

On  the  whole,  I  may  add  that  I  did  not  any- 
where in  England  hear  so  fine  a  burst  of  bird-song 
as  I  have  heard  at  home,  and  I  listened  long  for  it 
and  attentively.  Not  so  fine  in  quality,  thoiigli 
'perhaps  greater  in  quantity.  It  sometimes  happens 
that  several  species  of  our  best  songsters  pass  the 


144  FRESH   FIELDS 

season  in  the  same  locality,  some  favorite  spot  in 
the  woods,  or  at  the  head  of  a  sheltered  valley,  that 
possesses  attraction  for  many  kinds.  I  found  such 
a  place  one  summer  by  a  small  mountain  lake,  in 
the  southern  Catskills,  just  over  the  farm  borders, 
in  the  edge  of  the  primitive  forest.  The  lake  was 
surrounded  by  an  amphitheatre  of  wooded  steeps, 
except  a  short  space  on  one  side  where  there  was  an 
old  abandoned  clearing,  grown  up  to  saplings  and 
brush.  Birds  love  to  be  near  water,  and  I  think 
they  like  a  good  auditorium,  love  an  open  space 
like  that  of  a  small  lake  in  the  woods,  where  their 
voices  can  have  room  and  their  songs  reverberate. 
Certain  it  is  they  liked  this  place,  and  early  in 
the  morning  especially,  say  from  half  past  three  to 
half  past  four,  there  was  such  a  burst  of  melody  as 
I  had  never  before  heard.  The  most  prominent 
voices  were  those  of  the  wood  thrush,  veery  thrush, 
rose-breasted  grosbeak,  winter  wren,  and  one  of  the 
vireos,  and  occasionally  at  evening  that  of  the  her- 
mit, though  far  off  in  the  dusky  background,  —  birds 
all  notable  for  their  pure  melody,  except  that  of 
the  vireo,  which  was  cheery,  rather  than  melodious. 
A  singular  song  that  of  this  particular  vireo,  — 
"  Cheery,  cheery,  cheery  drunk  !  Cheery  drunk  !  " 
—  all  day  long  in  the  trees  above  our  tent.  The 
wood  thrush  was  the  most  abundant,  and  the  purity 
and  eloquence  of  its  strain,  or  of  their  mingled 
strains,  heard  in  the  cool  dewy  morning  from  across 
that  translucent  sheet  of  water,  was  indeed  memo- 
rable.     Its  liquid  and  serene  melody  was  in  such 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH    BIRDS       115 

perfect  keeping  with  the  scene.  The  eye  and  the 
ear  both  reported  the  same  beauty  and  harmony. 
Then  the  clear,  rich  fife  of  the  grosbeak  from  the 
tops  of  the  tallest  trees,  the  simple  flute-like  note 
of  the  veery,  and  the  sweetly  ringing,  wildly  lyrical 
outburst  of  the  winter  wren,  sometimes  from  the  roof 
of  our  butternut-colored  tent  —  all  joining  with  it 
—  formed  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  bits  of  a  bird 
symphony  it  has  ever  been  my  good  luck  to  hear. 
Often  at  sundown,  too,  while  we  sat  idly  in  our 
boat,  watching  the  trout  break  the  glassy  surface 
here  and  there,  the  same  soothing  melody  would  be 
poured  out  all  around  us,  and  kept  up  till  darkness 
filled  the  woods.  The  last  note  would  be  that  of 
the  wood  thrush,  calling  out  "quit,"  ''''quit." 
Across  there  in  a  particular  point,  I  used  at  night 
to  hear  another  thrush,  the  olive-backed,  the  song 
a  slight  variation  of  the  veery 's.  I  did  hear  in 
England  in  the  twilight  the  robin,  blackbird,  and 
song-thrush  unite  their  voices,  producing  a  loud, 
pleasing  chorus;  add  the  nightingale  and  you  have 
great  volume  and  power,  but  still  the  pure  melody 
of  my  songsters  by  the  lake  is  probably  not  reached. 


VII 

IN  WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY 

"^TO  other  English  poet  had  touched  me  quite  so 
"^^  closely  as  Wordsworth.  All  cultivated  men 
delight  in  Shakespeare;  he  is  the  universal  genius; 
but  Wordsworth's  poetry  has  more  the  character  of 
a  message,  and  a  message  special  and  personal,  to 
a  comparatively  small  circle  of  readers.  He  stands 
for  a  particular  phase  of  human  thought  and  expe- 
rience, and  his  service  to  certain  minds  is  like  an 
initiation  into  a  new  order  of  truths.  Note  what 
a  revelation  he  was  to  the  logical  mind  of  John 
Stuart  Mill.  His  limitations  make  him  all  the 
more  private  and  precious,  like  the  seclusion  of  one 
of  his  mountain  dales.  He  is  not  and  can  never  be 
the  world's  poet,  but  more  especially  the  poet  of 
those  who  love  solitude  and  solitary  communion 
with  nature.  Shakespeare's  attitude  toward  nature 
is  for  the  most  part  like  that  of  a  gay,  careless  rev- 
eler, who  leaves  his  companions  for  a  moment  to 
pluck  a  flower  or  gather  a  shell  here  and  there,  as 
they  stroll 

"  By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beachdd  margent  of  the  sea." 

He  is,   of  course,   preeminent  in  all  purely  poetic 


148  FRESH   FIELDS 

achievements,  but  his  poems  can  never  minister  to 
the  spirit  in  the  way  Wordsworth's  do. 

One  can  hardly  appreciate  the  extent  to  whicl/ 
the  latter  poet  has  absorbed  and  reproduced  the 
spirit  of  the  Westmoreland  scenery  until  he  has 
visited  that  region.  I  paused  there  a  few  days  in 
early  June,  on  my  way  south,  and  again  on  my 
return  late  in  July.  I  walked  up  from  Windermere 
to  Grasmere,  where,  on  the  second  visit,  I  took  up 
my  abode  at  the  historic  Swan  Inn,  where  Scott 
used  to  go  surreptitiously  to  get  his  mug  of  beer 
when  he  was  stopping  with  Wordsworth. 

The  call  of  the  cuckoo  came  to  me  from  over 
Rydal  Water  as  I  passed  along.  I  plucked  my  first 
foxglove  by  the  roadside;  paused  and  listened  to 
the  voice  of  the  mountain  torrent;  heard 

"  The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep;  " 
caught  many  a  glimpse  of  green,  unpeopled  hills, 
urn-shaped  dells,  treeless  heights,  rocky  promonto- 
ries, secluded  valleys,  and  clear,  swift  -  running 
streams.  The  scenery  was  sombre;  there  were  but 
two  colors,  green  and  brown,  verging  on  black; 
wherever  the  rock  cropped  out  of  the  green  turf  on 
the  mountain- sides,  or  in  the  vale,  it  showed  a  dark 
face.  But  the  tenderness  and  freshness  of  the  green 
tints  were  something  to  remember,  —  the  hue  of 
the  first  springing  April  grass,  massed  and  wide- 
spread in  midsummer. 

Then  there  was  a  quiet  splendor,  almost  gran- 
deur, about  Grasmere  vale,  such  as  I  had  not  seen 
elsewhere,  —  a  kind  of  monumental  beauty  and  dig- 


IN   WORDSWORTH  S   COUNTRY  149 

nity  that  agreed  well  with  one's  conception  of  the 
loftier  strains  of  its  poet.  It  is  not  too  much  domi- 
nated by  the  mountains,  though  shut  in  on  all  sides 
by  them;  that  stately  level  floor  of  the  valley  keeps 
them  back  and  defines  them,  and  they  rise  from  its 
outer  margin  like  rugged,  green-tufted,  and  green- 
draped  walls. 

It  is  doubtless  this  feature,  as  De  Quincey  says, 
this  floor-like  character  of  the  valley,  that  makes 
the  scenery  of  Grasmere  more  impressive  than  the 
scenery  in  North  Wales,  where  the  physiognomy  of 
the  mountains  is  essentially  the  same,  but  where 
the  valleys  are  more  bowl-shaped.  Amid  so  much 
that  is  steep  and  rugged  and  broken,  the  eye  de- 
lights in  the  repose  and  equilibrium  of  horizontal 
lines,  —  a  bit  of  table-land,  the  surface  of  the  lake, 
or  the  level  of  the  valley  bottom.  The  principal 
valleys  of  our  own  Catskill  region  all  have  this 
stately  floor,  so  characteristic  of  Wordsworth's 
country.  It  was  a  pleasure  which  I  daily  indulged 
in  to  stand  on  the  bridge  by  Grasmere  Church,  with 
that  full,  limpid  stream  before  me,  pausing  and 
deepening  under  the  stone  embankment  near  where 
the  dust  of  the  poet  lies,  and  let  the  eye  sweep 
across  the  plain  to  the  foot  of  the  near  mountains, 
or  dwell  upon  their  encircling  summits  above  the 
tops  of  the  trees  and  the  roofs  of  the  village.  The 
■v^ater-ouzel  loved  to  linger  there,  too,  and  would  sit 
in  contemplative  mood  on  the  stones  around  which 
the  water  loitered  and  murmured,  its  clear  white 
breast  alone  defining  it  from  the  object  upon  which 


150  FRESH   FIELDS 

it  rested.  Then  it  would  trip  along  the  margin  of 
the  pool,  or  flit  a  few  feet  over  its  surface,  and 
suddenly,  as  if  it  had  burst  like  a  bubble,  vanish 
before  my  eyes;  there  would  be  a  little  splash  of 
the  water  beneath  where  I  saw  it,  as  if  the  drop  of 
which  it  was  composed  had  reunited  with  the  sur- 
face there.  Then,  in  a  moment  or  two,  it  would 
emerge  from  the  water  and  take  up  its  stand  as  dry 
and  unruffled  as  ever.  It  was  always  amusing 
to  see  this  plump  little  bird,  so  unlike  a  water-fowl 
in  shape  and  manner,  disappear  in  the  stream.  It 
did  not  seem  to  dive,  but  simply  dropped  into  the 
water,  as  if  its  wings  had  suddenly  failed  it.  Some- 
times it  fairly  tumbled  in  from  its  perch.  It  was 
gone  from  sight  in  a  twinkling,  and,  while  you 
were  wondering  how  it  could  accomplish  the  feat  of 
walking  on  the  bottom  of  the  stream  under  there, 
it  reappeared  as  unconcerned  as  possible.  It  is  a 
song-bird,  a  thrush,  and  gives  a  feature  to  these 
mountain  streams  and  waterfalls  which  ours,  except 
on  the  Pacific  coast,  entirely  lack.  The  stream 
that  winds  through  Grasmere  vale,  and  flows  against 
the  embankment  of  the  churchyard,  as  the  Avon  at 
Stratford,  is  of  great  beauty,  —  clean,  bright,  full, 
trouty,  with  just  a  tinge  of  gypsy  blood  in  its  veins, 
which  it  gets  from  the  black  tarns  on  the  moun- 
tains, and  which  adds  to  its  richness  of  color.  I 
saw  an  angler  take  a  few  trout  from  it,  in  a  meadow 
near  the  village.  After  a  heavy  rain  the  stream 
was  not  roily,  but  slightly  darker  in  hue;  these 
fields  and  mountains  are  so  turf-bound  that  no  par- 
ticle of  soil  is  carried  away  by  the  water. 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY  151 

Falls  and  cascades  are  a  great  feature  all  through 
this  country,  as  they  are  a  marked  feature  in  Words- 
worth's poetry.  One's  ear  is  everywhere  haunted 
by  the  sound  of  falling  water;  and,  when  the  ear 
cannot  hear  them,  the  eye  can  see  the  streaks  or 
patches  of  white  foam  down  the  green  declivities. 
There  are  no  trees  above  the  valley  bottom  to  ob- 
struct the  view,  and  no  hum  of  woods  to  muffle  the 
sounds  of  distant  streams.  AVlien  I  was  at  Gras- 
mere  there  was  much  rain,  and  this  stanza  of  the 
poet  came  to  mind :  — 

"  Loud  is  the  Vale !     The  voice  is  up 
With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 
A  mighty  unison  of  streams ! 
Of  all  her  voices,  one!  " 

The  words  "  vale  "  and  "  dell "  come  to  have  a  new 
meaning  after  one  has  visited  Wordsworth's  coun- 
try, just  as  the  words  "cottage"  and  "shepherd" 
also  have  so  much  more  significance  there  and  in 
Scotland  than  at  home. 

"  Dear  child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 
—  There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbor  and  a  hold, 
Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shalt  see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 
A  light  to  young  and  old." 

Every  humble  dwelling  looks  like  a  nest;  that  in 
which  the  poet  himself  lived  had  a  cozy,  nest-like 
look;  and  every  vale  is  green,  — a  cradle  amid  rocky 
heights,  padded  and  carpeted  witli  the  thickest  turf. 
Wordsworth  is  described  as  the  poet  of  nature. 
He  is  more  the  poet  of  man,  deeply  wrought  upon 


152  FRESH   FIELDS 

by  a  certain  phase  of  nature,  —  the  nature  of  those 
sombre,  quiet,  green,  far-reaching  mountain  soli- 
tudes. There  is  a  shepherd  quality  about  him;  he 
loves  the  flocks,  the  heights,  the  tarn,  the  tender 
herbage,  the  sheltered  dell,  the  fold,  with  a  kind 
of  poetized  shepherd  instinct.  Lambs  and  sheep 
and  their  haunts,  and  those  who  tend  them,  recur 
perpetually  in  his  poems.  How  well  his  verse 
harmonizes  with  those  high,  green,  and  gray  soli- 
tudes, where  the  silence  is  broken  only  by  the  bleat 
of  lambs  or  sheep,  or  just  stirred  by  the  voice 
of  distant  waterfalls!  Simple,  elemental  yet  pro- 
foundly tender  and  human,  he  had 

"  The  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be." 

He  brooded  upon  nature,  but  it  was  nature  mirrored 

in  his  own  heart.      In  his  poem  of  "The  Brothers  " 

he  says  of  his  hero,  who  had  gone  to  sea :  — 

"  He  had  been  rear'd 
Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a  shepherd  on  the  storm}'  seas. 
Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 
The  tones  of  waterfalls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees;  " 

and,  leaning  over  the  vessel's  side  and  gazing  into 
the  "broad  green  wave  and  sparkling  foam,"  he 

"  Saw  mountains,  —  saw  the  forms  of  sheep  that  grazed 
On  verdant  hills." 

This  was  what  his  own  heart  told  him;  every  expe- 
rience or  sentiment  called  those  beloved  images  to 
his  own  mind. 

One  afternoon,    when  the  sun   seemed   likely  to 


IN   WOEDSWORTIl'S   COUNTRY  153 

get  the  better  of  the  soft  rain- clouds,  I  set  out  to 
climb  to  the  top  of  Helvellyii.  I  followed  the 
highAvay  a  mile  or  more  beyond  the  Swan  Inn,  and 
then  I  committed  myself  to  a  footpath  that  turns 
up  the  mountain- side  to  the  right,  and  crosses  into 
Grisedale  and  so  to  Ulleswater.  Two  schoolgirls 
whom  I  overtook  put  me  on  the  right  track.  The 
voice  of  a  foaming  mountain  torrent  was  in  my  ears 
a  long  distance,  and  now  and  then  the  path  crossed 
it.  Pairfield  Mountain  was  on  my  right  hand, 
Helm  Crag  and  Dunmail  Raise  on  my  left.  Gras- 
mere  plain  soon  lay  far  below.  The  haymakers, 
encouraged  by  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  were  hastily 
raking  together  the  rain-blackened  hay.  From  my 
outlook  they  appeared  to  be  slowly  and  laboriously 
rolling  up  a  great  sheet  of  dark  brown  paper,  un- 
covering beneath  it  one  of  the  most  fresh  and  vivid 
green.  The  mown  grass  is  so  long  in  curing  in 
this  country  (frequently  two  weeks)  that  the  new 
blades  spring  beneath  it,  and  a  second  crop  is  well 
underway  before  the  old  is  "carried."  The  long 
mountain  slopes  up  which  I  was  making  my  way 
were  as  verdant  as  the  plain  below  nie.  Large 
coarse  ferns  or  bracken,  with  an  under-lining  of  tine 
grass,  covered  the  ground  on  the  lower  portions. 
On  the  higher,  grass  alone  prevailed.  On  the  top 
of  the  divide,  looking  down  into  the  valley  of 
Ulleswater,  I  came  upon  one  of  those  black  tarns, 
or  mountain  lakelets,  which  are  such  a  feature  in  this 
strange  scenery.  The  word  "  tarn  "  has  no  mean- 
ing with  us,  though  our  young  poets  sometimes  use 


154  FRESH   FIELDS 

it  as  they  do  this  Yorkshire  word  "wold;"  one 
they  get  from  Wordsworth,  the  other  from  Tennyson. 
But  when  you  have  seen  one  of  those  still,  inky 
pools  at  the  head  of  a  silent,  lonely  Westmoreland 
dale,  you  will  not  be  apt  to  misapply  the  word  in 
future.  Suddenly  the  serene  shepherd  mountain 
opens  this  black,  gleaming  eye  at  your  feet,  and  it 
is  all  the  more  weird  for  having  no  eyebrow  of 
rocks,  or  fringe  of  rush  or  bush.  The  steep,  encir- 
cling slopes  drop  down  and  hem  it  about  with  the 
most  green  and  uniform  turf.  If  its  rim  had  been 
modeled  by  human  hands,  it  could  not  have  been 
more  regular  or  gentle  in  outline.  Beneath  its 
emerald  coat  the  soil  is  black  and  peaty,  which 
accounts  for  the  hue  of  the  water  and  the  dark  line 
that  encircles  it. 

"  All  round  this  pool  both  flocks  and  herds  might  drink 
On  its  firm  margin,  even  as  from  a  well, 
Or  some  stone  basin,  which  the  herdsman's  hand 
Had  shaped  for  their  refreshment." 

The  path  led  across  the  outlet  of  the  tarn,  and  then 
divided,  one  branch  going  down  into  the  head  of 
Grisedale,  and  the  other  mounting  up  the  steep 
flank  of  Helvellyn.  Far  up  the  green  acclivity  I 
met  a  man  and  two  young  women  making  their  way 
slowly  down.  They  had  come  from  Glenridding 
on  Ulleswater,  and  were  going  to  Grasmere.  The 
women  looked  cold,  and  said  I  would  find  it  wintry 
on  the  summit. 

Helvellyn  has  a  broad  flank  and  a  long  back,  and 
comes   to    a    head    very   slowly   and  gently.      You 


IN   WOKDSWORTIl'S   COUNTRY  155 

reach  a  wire  fence  well  up  on  the  top  that  divides 

some  sheep  ranges,  pass  through  a  gate,  and  have 

a  mile  yet  to  the  highest  ground  in  front  of  you ; 

but  you  could  traverse  it  in  a  buggy,  it  is  so  smooth 

and  grassy.      The  grass  fails  just  before  the  summit 

is  reached,   and  the  ground  is  covered  with  small 

fragments  of   the   decomposed  rock.      The  view  is 

impressive,   and   such  as  one  likes  to  sit  down  to 

and  drink  in  slowly,  —  a 

"  Grand  terraqueous  spectacle, 
From  centre  to  circumference,  unveil'd." 

The  wind  was  moderate  and  not  cold.  Toward 
UUeswater  the  mountain  drops  down  abruptly  many 
hundred  feet,  but  its  vast  western  slope  appeared 
one  smooth,  unbroken  surface  of  grass.  The  fol- 
lowing jottings  in  my  notebook,  on  the  spot,  pre- 
serve some  of  the  features  of  the  scene:  "All  the 
northern  landscape  lies  in  the   sunlight   as  far   as 

Carlisle, 

"A  tumultuous  waste  of  huge  hilltops;  " 

not  quite  so  severe  and  rugged  as  the  Scotch  moun- 
tains, but  the  view  more  pleasing  and  more  exten- 
sive than  the  one  I  got  from  Ben  Venue.  The 
black  tarns  at  my  feet,  —  Keppel  Cove  Tarn  one  of 
them,  according  to  my  map,  —  how  curious  they 
look !  I  can  just  discern  the  figure  of  a  man  mov- 
ing by  the  marge  of  one  of  them.  Away  beyond 
UUeswater  is  a  vast  sweep  of  country  flecked  here 
and  there  by  slowly  moving  cloud  shadows.  To 
the  northeast,  in  places,  the  backs  and  sides  of  tlio 
mountains  have  a  green,  pastoral  voluptuousness,  so 


156  FRESH  FIELDS 

smooth  and  full  are  they  with  thick  turf.     At  other 
points   the   rock   has   fretted   through   the    verdant 
carpet.      St.    Sunday's    Crag    to    the    west,    across 
Grisedale,  is  a  steep  acclivity  covered  with  small, 
loose  stones,  as  if  they  had  heen  dumped  over  the 
top,  and  were  slowly   sliding   down;  but    nowhere 
do  I  see  great  bowlders  strewn  about.      Patches  of 
black  peat  are  here  and  there.      The  little  rills,  near 
and  far,  are  white  as  milk,  so  swiftly  do  they  run. 
On  the  more  precipitous  sides  the  grass  and  moss 
are  lodged,  and  hold  like  snow,  and  are  as  tender 
in  hue  as  the  first  April  blades.      A  multitude  of 
lakes  are  in  view,  and  Morecambe  Bay  to  the  south. 
There  are  sheep  everywhere,  loosely  scattered,  with 
their  lambs;  occasionally  I  hear  them  bleat.      No 
other  sound  is  heard  but  the  chirp  of  the  mountain 
pipit.      I  see  the  wheat-ear  flitting  here  and  there. 
One  mountain  now  lies  in  full  sunshine,  as  fat  as 
a  seal,    wrinkled  and  dimpled   where    it    turns    to 
the  west,  like  a  fat  animal  when  it  bends  to  lick 
itself.      What  a  spectacle  is  now  before  me!  —  all 
the  near  mountains  in  shadow,  and  the  distant  in 
strong  sunlight;   I   shall  not  see  the  like  of  that 
again.      On  some  of  the  mountains  the  green  vest- 
ments  are   in   tatters   and   rags,    so   to   speak,    and 
barely  cling  to  them.      No  heather  in  view.      To- 
ward Windermere  the  high  peaks  and  crests  are  much 
more  jagged  and  rocky.      The  air  is  filled  with  the 
same  white,  motionless  vapor  as  in  Scotland.     When 
the  sun  breaks  through,  — 


IN    WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY  IT)? 

"  Slant  watery  li|:^hts,  from  parting  clouds,  apace 
Travel  along  the  precipice's  base, 
Cheering  its  naked  waste  of  scatter'd  stone." 

Amid  these  scenes  one  comes  face  to  face  with 
nature, 

"With  the  pristine  earth, 
The  planet  in  its  nakedness," 

as  he  cannot  in  a  wooded  country.  The  primal, 
abysmal  energies,  grown  tender  and  meditative,  as 
it  were,  thoughtful  of  the  shepherd  and  his  flocks, 
and  voiceful  only  in  the  leaping  torrents,  look  out 
upon  one  near  at  hand  and  pass  a  mute  recognition. 
Wordsworth  perpetually  refers  to  these  hills  and 
dales  as  lonely  or  lonesome ;  but  his  heart  was  still 
more  lonely.  The  outward  solitude  was  congenial 
to  the  isolation  and  profound  privacy  of  his  own 
soul.  "Lonesome,"  he  says  of  one  of  these  moun- 
tain dales,  but 

"  Not  melancholy,  —  no,  for  it  is  green 
And  bright  and  fertile,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 
In  rugged  arms  hoAv  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 
How  tenderly  protected." 

It  is  this  tender  and  sheltering  character  of  tlie 
mountains  of  the  Lake  district  that  is  one  main 
source  of  their  charm.  So  rugged  and  lofty,  and 
yet  so  mellow  and  delicate!  No  shaggy,  weedy 
growths  or  tangles  anywhere;  nothing  wilder  than 
the  bracken,  which  at  a  distance  looks  as  solid  as 
the  grass.  The  turf  is  as  fine  and  thick  as  that  of 
a  lawn.  The  dainty-nosed  lambs  could  not  crave 
a  tenderer  bite  than  it  affords.      The  wool  of  the 


158  FRESH   FIELDS 

dams  could  hardly  be  softer  to  the  foot.  The  last 
of  July  the  grass  was  still  short  and  thick,  as  if  it 
never  shot  up  a  stalk  and  produced  seed,  but  always 
remained  a  fine,  close  mat.  Nothing  was  more 
unlike  what  I  was  used  to  at  home  than  this  uni- 
versal tendency  (the  same  is  true  in  Scotland  and 
in  Wales)  to  grass,  and,  on  the  lower  slopes,  to 
bracken,  as  if  these  were  the  only  two  plants  in 
nature.  Many  of  these  eminences  in  the  north  of 
England,  too  lofty  for  hills  and  too  smooth  for 
mountains,  are  called  fells.  The  railway  between 
Carlisle  and  Preston  winds  between  them,  as  Hough- 
ill  Fells,  Tebay  Fells,  Shap  Fells,  etc.  They  are, 
even  in  midsummer,  of  such  a  vivid  and  uniform 
green  that  it  seems  as  if  they  must  have  been 
painted.  Nothing  blurs  or  mars  the  hue;  no  stalk 
of  weed  or  stem  of  dry  grass.  The  scene,  in  single- 
ness and  purity  of  tint,  rivals  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
Nature  does  not  seem  to  ripen  and  grow  sere  as 
autumn  approaches,  but  wears  the  tints  of  May  in 
October. 


vin 

A  GLANCE  AT  BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS 

rpHE  first  flower  I  plucked  in  Britain  was  the 
-^  daisy,  in  one  of  the  parks  in  Glasgow.  The 
sward  had  recently  been  mown,  but  the  daisies 
dotted  it  as  thickly  as  stars.  It  is  a  flower  almost 
as  common  as  the  grass ;  find  a  square  foot  of  green- 
sward anywhere,  and  you  are  pretty  sure  to  find  a 
daisy,  probably  several  of  them.  Bairnwort  — 
child's  flower  —  it  is  called  in  some  parts,  and  its 
expression  is  truly  infantile.  It  is  the  favorite  of 
all  the  poets,  and  when  one  comes  to  see  it  he  does 
not  think  it  has  been  a  bit  overpraised.  Some 
flowers  please  us  by  their  intrinsic  beauty  of  color 
and  form;  others  by  their  expression  of  certain 
human  qualities :  the  daisy  has  a  modest,  lowly,  un- 
obtrusive look  that  is  very  taking.  A  little  white 
ring,  its  margin  unevenly  touched  with  crimson,  it 
looks  up  at  one  like  the  eye  of  a  child. 

"  Thou  unassuminj?  Commonplace 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 
Which  Love  makes  for  thee!  " 

Not  a  little  of  its  charm  to  an  American  is  the 
unexpected  contrast  it  presents  with  the  rank,  coarse 


160  FRESH   FIELDS 

ox-eye  daisy  so  common  in  this  country,  and  more 
or  less  abundant  in  Britain,  too.  The  Scotch  call 
this  latter  "dog  daisy."  I  thought  it  even  coarser, 
and  taller  there  than  with  us.  Though  the  com- 
monest of  weeds,  the  "wee,  modest,  crimson-tippit 
flower"  sticks  close  at  home;  it  seems  to  have 
none  of  the  wandering,  devil-may-care,  vagabond 
propensities  of  so  many  other  weeds.  I  believe  it 
has  never  yet  appeared  wpon  our  shores  in  a  wild 
state,  though  Wordsworth  addressed  it  thus :  — 

"  Thou  wander'st  this  wild  world  about 
Unchecked  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt." 

The  daisy  is  prettier  in  the  bud  than  in  the 
flower,  as  it  then  shows  more  crimson.  It  shuts 
up  on  the  approach  of  foul  weather;  hence  Tenny- 
son says  the  daisy  closes  v 

"Her  crimson  fringes  to  me*shower>^" 

At  Alloway,  whither  I  flitted  from  Glasgow,  I 
first  put  my  hand  into  the  British  nettle,  and,  I 
may  add,  took  it  out  again  as  quickly  as  if  I  had 
put  it  into  the  fire.  I  little  suspected  that  rank 
dark-green  weed  there  amid  the  grass  under  the  old 
apple-trees,  where  the  blue  speedwell  and  cocks- 
combs grew,  to  be  a  nettle.  But  I  soon  learned 
that  the  one  plant  you  can  count  on  everj'-where  in 
England  and  Scotland  is  the  nettle.  It  is  the  royal 
weed  of  Britain.  It  stands  guard  along  every  road- 
bank  and  hedge-row  in  the  island. 

Put  your  hand  to  the  ground  after  dark  in  any 
fence  corner,  or  under  any  hedge,  or  on  the  border 
of  any  field,  and  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  you  will 


A   GLANCE   AT   BRITISH    WILD    FLOWERS      ICl 

take  it  back  again  with  surprising  alacrity.  And 
such  a  villainous  fang  as  the  plant  has !  it  is  like 
the  sting  of  bees.  Your  hand  burns  and  smarts  for 
hours  afterward.  My  little  boy  and  I  were  eagerly 
gathering  wild  flowers  on  the  banks  of  tlie  Doon, 
when  I  heard  him  scream,  a  few  yards  from  me. 
I  had  that  moment  jerked  my  stinging  hand  out  of 
the  grass  as  if  I  had  put  it  into  a  hornet's  nest,  and 
I  knew  what  the  youngster  had  found.  We  held 
our  burning  fingers  in  the  water,  which  only  aggra- 
vated the  poison.  It  is  a  dark  green,  rankly  grow- 
ing plant,  from  one  to  two  feet  high,  that  asks  no 
leave  of  anybody.  It  is  the  police  that  protects 
every  flower  in  the  hedge.  To  "pluck  the  flower 
of  safety  from  the  nettle  danger ''  is  a  figure  of 
speech  that  has  especial  force  in  this  island.  The 
species  of  our  own  nettle  with  which  I  am  best 
acquainted,  the  large-leaved  Canada  nettle,  grows 
in  the  woods,  is  shy  and  delicate,  is  cropped  by 
cattle,  and  its  sting  is  mild.  But  apparently  no 
cow's  tongue  can  stand  the  British  nettle,  though, 
when  cured  as  hay,  it  is  said  to  make  good  fodder. 
Even  the  pigs  cannot  eat  it  till  it  is  boiled.  In 
starvation  times  it  is  extensively  used  as  a  pot-herb, 
and,  when  dried,  its  fibre  is  said  to  be  nearly  equal 
to  that  of  flax.  Bough  handling,  I  am  told,  dis- 
arms it,  but  I  could  not  summon  up  courage  to  try 
the  experiment.      Ophelia  made  her  garlands 

"  Of  crow-flowers,  daisies,  nettles,  and  long  purples." 

But  the  nettle  here  referred  to  was   proljaldy  the 
stingless  dead-nettle. 


162  .  FEESH   FIELDS 

A  Scotch  farmer,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted, 
took  me  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  stroll  through  his 
fields.  I  went  to  his  kirk  in  the  forenoon;  in  the 
afternoon  he  and  his  son  went  to  mine,  and  liked 
the  sermon  as  well  as  I  did.  These  banks  and 
braes  of  Doon,  of  a  bright  day  in  May,  are  eloquent 
enough  for  anybody.  Our  path  led  along  the  river 
course  for  some  distance.  The  globe-flower,  like 
a  large  buttercup  with  the  petals  partly  closed, 
nodded  here  and  there.  On  a  broad,  sloping,  semi- 
circular bank,  where  a  level  expanse  of  rich  fields 
dropped  down  to  a  springy,  rushy  bottom  near  the 
river's  edge,  and  which  the  Scotch  call  a  brae,  we 
reclined  upon  the  grass  and  listened  to  the  birds, 
all  but  the  lark  new  to  me,  and  discussed  the  flow- 
ers growing  about.  In  a  wet  place  the  "gilly- 
flower "  was  growing,  suggesting  our  dentaria,  or 
crinkle-root.  This  is  said  to  be  "the  lady's  smock 
all  silver-white "  of  Shakespeare,  but  these  were 
not  white,  rather  a  pale  lilac.  Near  by,  upon  the 
ground,  was  the  nest  of  the  meadow  pipit,  a  species 
of  titlark,  which  my  friend  would  have  me  believe 
was  the  wood-lark,  —  a  bird  I  was  on  the  lookout 
for.  The  nest  contained  six  brown- speckled  eggs, 
—  a  large  number,  I  thought.  But  I  found  that 
this  is  the  country  in  which  to  see  birds' -nests 
crowded  with  eggs,  as  well  as  human  habitations 
thronged  with  children.  A  white  umbelliferous 
plant,  very  much  like  wild  carrot,  dotted  the  turf 
here  and  there.  This,  my  companion  said,  was 
pig-nut,    or  ground-chestnut,  and  that  there  was  a 


A   GLANCE   AT   BRITISH    WILD   FLOWERS      103 

sweet,  edible  tuber  at  the  root  of  it,  and,  to  make 
his  words  good,  dug  up  one  with  his  fingers,  recall- 
ing Caliban's  words  in  the  "Tempest":  — 

"And  I,  with  my  long  nails,  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts." 
The  plant  grows  freely  about  England,  but  does  not 
seem  to  be  troublesome  as  a  weed. 

In  a  wooded  slope  beyond  the  brae,  I  plucked 
my  first  woodruff,  a  little  cluster  of  pure  white 
flowers,  much  like  that  of  our  saxifrage,  with  a 
delicate  perfume.  Its  stalk  has  a  whorl  of  leaves 
like  the  galium.  As  the  plant  dries  its  perfume 
increases,  and  a  handful  of  it  will  scent  a  room. 

The  wild  hyacinths,  or  bluebells,  had  begun  to 
fade,  but  a  few  could  yet  be  gathered  here  and  there 
in  the  woods  and  in  the  edges  of  the  fields.  This 
is  one  of  the  plants  of  which  nature  is  very  prodi- 
gal in  Britain.  In  places  it  makes  the  underwoods 
as  blue  as  the  sky,  and  its  rank  perfume  loads  the 
air.  Tennyson  speaks  of  "sheets  of  hyacinths." 
We  have  no  wood  flower  in  the  Eastern  States  that 
grows  in  such  profusion. 

Our  flowers,  like  our  birds  and  wild  creatures, 
are  more  shy  and  retiring  than  the  British.  They 
keep  more  to  the  woods,  and  are  not  sowed  so 
broadcast.  Herb  Robert  is  exclusively  a  wood 
plant  with  us,  but  in  England  it  strays  quite  out 
into  the  open  fields  and  by  the  roadside.  Indeed, 
in  England  I  found  no  so-called  wood  flower  that 
could  not  be  met  with  more  or  less  in  the  fields  and 
along  the  hedges.  The  main  reason,  perliaps,  is 
that  the  need  of   shelter  is  never  so  great  there, 


164  FRESH  FIELDS 

neither  winter  nor  summer,  as  it  is  here,  and  the 
supply  of  moisture  is  more  uniform  and  abundant. 
In  dampness,  coohiess,  and  shadiness,  the  whole 
climate  is  woodsy,  while  the  atmosphere  of  the 
woods  themselves  is  almost  subterranean  in  its  dank- 
ness  and  chilliness.  The  plants  come  out  for  sun 
and  warmth,  and  every  seed  they  scatter  in  this 
moist  and  fruitful  soil  takes. 

How  many  exclusive  wood  flowers  we  have,  most 
of  our  choicest  kinds  being  of  sylvan  birth,  —  flowers 
that  seem  to  vanish  before  the  mere  breath  of  culti- 
vated fields,  as  wild  as  the  partridge  and  the  beaver, 
like  the  yellow  violet,  the  arbutus,  the  medeola, 
the  dicentra,  the  claytonia,  the  trilliums,  many  of 
the  orchids,  uvularia,  dalibarda,  and  others.  In 
England,  probably,  all  these  plants,  if  they  grew 
there,  would  come  out  into  the  fields  and  opens. 
The  wild  strawberry,  however,  reverses  this  rule; 
it  is  more  a  wood  plant  in  England  than  with  us. 
Excepting  the  rarer  variety  {Fragaria  iwsca),  our 
strawberry  thrives  best  in  cultivated  fields,  and 
Shakespeare's  reference  to  this  fruit  would  not  be 
apt,  — 

"  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle ; 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best, 
Neighbor'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality." 

The  British  strawberry  is  found  exclusively,  I  be- 
lieve, in  woods  and  copses,  and  the  ripened  fruit  is 
smaller  or  lighter  colored  than  our  own. 

Nature  in  this  island  is  less  versatile  than  with 
us,  but  more  constant  and  uniform,  less  variety  and 


A   GLANCE   AT   BRITISH    WILD    FLOWERS      1G5 

contrast  in  her  works,  and  less  capriciousness  and 
reservation  also.  She  is  chary  of  new  species,  Ijut 
multiplies  the  old  ones  endlessly.  I  did  not  ob- 
serve so  many  varieties  of  wild  flowers  as  at  home, 
but  a  great  profusion  of  specimens ;  her  lap  is  fuller, 
but  the  kinds  are  fewer.  Where  you  find  one  of 
a  kind,  you  will  find  ten  thousand.  Wordsworth 
saw  "golden  dafifodils," 

"  Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way," 

and  one  sees  nearly  all  the  common  wild  flowers  in 
the  same  profusion.  The  buttercup,  the  dandelion, 
the  ox-eye  daisy,  and  other  field  flowers  that  have 
come  to  us  from  Europe,  are  samples  of  how  lav- 
ishly Nature  bestows  her  floral  gifts  upon  the  Old 
World.  In  July  the  scarlet  poppies  are  thickly 
sprinkled  over  nearly  every  wheat  and  oat  field  in 
the  kingdom.  The  green  waving  grain  seems  to 
have  been  spattered  with  blood.  Other  flowers 
were  alike  universal.  Not  a  plant  but  seems  to 
have  sown  itself  from  one  end  of  the  island  to  the 
other.  Never  before  did  I  see  so  much  white 
clover.  From  the  first  to  the  last  of  July,  the 
fields  in  Scotland  and  England  were  white  with  it. 
Every  square  inch  of  ground  had  its  clover  blossom. 
Such  a  harvest  as  there  was  for  the  honey-bee,  un- 
less the  nectar  was  too  much  diluted  with  wiUer  in 
this  rainy  climate,  which  was  probably  the  case. 
In  traveling  south  from  Scotland,  tlie  foxglove 
traveled  as  fast  as  I  did,  and  I  found  it  just  as 
abundant  in  the  southern  counties  as  in  the  north- 


166  FRESH   FIELDS 

ern.      This  is  the  most  beautiful  and  conspicuous  of 
all  the  wild  flowers  I  saw,  —  a  spire  of  large  purple 
bells  rising  above  the  ferns  and  copses  and  along 
the  hedges  everywhere.      Among  the  copses  of  Sur- 
rey and  Hants,  I  saw  it  five  feet  high,  and  amid 
the  rocks  of  North  Wales  still  higher.      We  have 
no  conspicuous  wild  flower  that  compares  with  it. 
It  is  so  showy  and  abundant  that  the  traveler  on 
the  express  train  cannot  miss  it;  while  the  pedes- 
trian finds  it  lining  his  way  like  rows  of  torches. 
The   bloom   creeps   up   the   stalk  gradually  as   the 
season  advances,  taking  from  a  month  to  six  weeks 
to  go  from  the  bottom  to  the  top,   making  at   all 
times  a  most  pleasing  gradation  of  color,  and  show- 
ing  the   plant   each   day   with   new   flowers   and   a 
fresh,  new  look.      It  never  looks  shabby  and  spent, 
from  first  to  last.      The  lower  buds  open  the  first 
week  in  June,  and  slowly  the  purple  wave  creeps 
upward;  bell  after  bell  swings  to  the  bee  and  moth, 
till  the  end  of  July,  when  you  see  the  stalk  waving 
in  the  wind  with  two  or  three  flowers  at  the  top, 
as  perfect  and  vivid  as  those  that  opened  first.      I 
wonder  the  poets  have  not  mentioned  it   oftener. 
Tennyson  speaks  of  "the  foxglove  spire."     I  note 
this  allusion  in  Keats :  — 

"Where  the  deer's  swift  leap 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell," 

and  this  from  Coleridge :  — 

"  The  fox-glove  tall 
Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells  or  in  the  gust, 
Or  when  it  bends  beneath  the  upspringing  lark, 
Or  mountain  finch  alighting." 


A   GLANCE    AT   BRITISH    WILD    FLOWERS      1C7 

Coleridge  perhaps  knew  that  the  lark  did  not  perch 
upon  the  stalk  of  the  foxglove,  or  upon  any  other 
stalk  or  branch,  being  entirely  a  ground  bird  and 
not  a  percher,  but  he  would  seem  to  imply  that  it 
did,  in  these  lines. 

A  London  correspondent   calls   my   attention   to 
these  lines  from  Wordsworth,  — 

"  Bees  that  soar 
High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness  Fells, 
Yet  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells  ; " 

and  adds:  "Less  poetical,  but  as  graphic,  was  a 
Devonshire  woman's  comparison  of  a  dull  preacher 
to  a  '  Drummle  drane  in  a  pop ; '  Anglice,  A  drone 
in  a  foxglove,  —  called  a  pop  from  children  amusing 
themselves  with  popping  its  bells." 

The  prettiest  of  all  humble  roadside  flowers  I 
saw  was  the  little  blue  speedwell.  I  was  seldom 
out  of  sight  of  it  anywhere  in  my  walks  till  near 
the  end  of  June;  while  its  little  bands  and  assem- 
blages of  deep  blue  flowers  in  the  grass  by  the  road- 
side, turning  a  host  of  infantile  faces  up  to  the  sun, 
often  made  me  pause  and  admire.  It  is  prettier 
than  the  violet,  and  larger  and  deeper  colored  than 
our  houstonia.  It  is  a  small  and  delicate  edition 
of  our  hepatica,  done  in  indigo  blue  and  wonted  to 
the  grass  in  the  fields  and  by  the  waysides. 
"The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue," 

sings  Tennyson.  I  saw  it  blooming,  with  the  daisy 
and  the  buttercup,  upon  the  grave  of  Carlyle.  The 
tender  human  and  poetic  element  of  this  stern  rocky 
nature  was  well  expressed  by  it. 


168  FRESH   FIELDS 

In  the  Lake  district  I  saw  meadows  purple  with 
a  species  of  wild  geranium,  prohably  Geranium 
pratense.  It  answered  well  to  our  wild  geranium, 
which  in  May  sometimes  covers  wettish  meadows 
in  the  same  manner,  except  that  this  English  species 
was  of  a  dark  blue  purple.  Prunella,  I  noticed, 
was  of  a  much  deeper  purple  there  than  at  home. 
The  purple  orchids  also  were  stronger  colored,  but 
less  graceful  and  pleasing,  than  our  own.  One 
species  which  I  noticed  in  June,  with  habits  similar 
to  our  purple  fringed- orchis,  perhaps  the  pyramidal 
orchis,  had  quite  a  coarse,  plebeian  look.  Probably 
the  most  striking  blue  and  purple  wild  flowers  we 
have  are  of  European  origin,  as  succory,  blue-weed 
or  bugloss,  vervain,  purple  loosestrife,  and  harebell. 
These  colors,  except  with  the  fall  asters  and  gentians, 
seem  rather  unstable  in  our  flora. 

It  has  been  observed  by  the  Norwegian  botanist 
Schubeler  that  plants  and  trees  in  the  higher  lati- 
tudes have  larger  leaves  and  larger  flowers  than 
farther  south,  and  that  many  flowers  which  are 
white  in  the  south  become  violet  in  the  far  north. 
This  agrees  with  my  own  observation.  The  feebler 
light  necessitates  more  leaf  surface,  and  the  fewer 
insects  necessitate  larger  and  more  showy  flowers  to 
attract  them  and  secure  cross-fertilization.  Black- 
berry blossoms,  so  white  with  us,  are  a  decided 
pink  in  England.  The  same  is  true  of  the  water- 
plantain.  Our  houstonia  and  hepatica  would  proba- 
bly become  a  deep  blue  in  that  country.  The 
marine  climate  probably  has  something  to  do  also 


A   GLANCE   AT   BRITISH   WILD   FLOWERS      1G9 

with  this  high  color  of  the  British  flowers,  as  I 
have  noticed  that  on  our  New  England  coast  the 
same  flowers  are  deeper  tinted  than  they  are  in 
the  interior. 

A  flower  which  greets  all  ramblers  to  moist  fields 
and  tranquil  watercourses  in  midsummer  is  the 
meadow-sweet,  called  also  queen  of  the  meadows. 
It  belongs  to  the  Spiraea  tribe,  where  our  hardback, 
nine-bark,  meadow-sweet,  queen  of  the  prairie,  and 
others  belong,  but  surpasses  all  our  species  in  being 
sweet-scented,  —  a  suggestion  of  almonds  and  cin- 
namon. I  saw  much  of  it  about  Stratford,  and  in 
rowing  on  the  Avon  plucked  its  large  clusters  of 
fine,  creamy  white  flowers  from  my  boat.  Arnold 
is  felicitous  in  describing  it  as  the  "blond  meadow- 
sweet. " 

They  cultivate  a  species  of  clover  in  England 
that  gives  a  striking  efi'ect  to  a  field  when  in  bloom, 
Trifoliiini  incarnatu?7i,  the  long  heads  as  red  as 
blood.  It  is  grown  mostly  for  green  fodder.  I 
saw  not  one  spear  of  timothy  grass  in  all  my  ram- 
bles. Though  this  is  a  grass  of  European  origin, 
yet  it  seems  to  be  quite  unknown  among  English 
and  Scotch  farmers.  The  horse  bean,  or  Winches- 
ter bean,  sown  broadcast,  is  a  new  feature,  while  its 
perfume,  suggesting  that  of  apple  orchards,  is  the 
most  agreeable  to  be  met  with. 

I  was  delighted  with  the  furze,  or  whin,  as  the 
Scotch  call  it,  with  its  multitude  of  rich  yellow, 
pea-like  blossoms  exhaling  a  perfume  that  reminded 
me    of    mingled    cocoanut    and    peaches.      It    is     a 


170  FRESH   FIELDS 

prickly,  disagreeable  shrub  to  the  touch,  like  our 
ground  juniper.  It  seems  to  mark  everywhere  the 
line  of  cultivation;  where  the  furze  begins  the  plow 
stops.  It  covers  heaths  and  commons,  and,  with 
the  heather,  gives  that  dark  hue  to  the  Scotch  and 
English  uplands.  The  heather  I  did  not  see  in  all 
its  glory.  It  was  just  coming  into  bloom  Avhen  I 
left,  the  last  of  July ;  but  the  glimpses  I  had  of  it 
in  North  Wales,  and  again  in  northern  Ireland, 
were  most  pleasing.  It  gave  a  purple  border  or 
fringe  to  the  dark  rocks  (the  rocks  are  never  so 
lightly  tinted  in  this  island  as  ours  are)  that  was 
very  rich  and  striking.  The  heather  vies  with  the 
grass  in  its  extent  and  uniformity.  Until  midsum- 
mer it  covers  the  moors  and  uplands  as  with  a  dark 
brown  coat.  When  it  blooms,  this  coat  becomes  a 
royal  robe.  The  flower  yields  honey  to  the  bee, 
and  the  plant  shelter  to  the  birds  and  game,  and  is 
used  by  the  cottagers  for  thatching,  and  for  twisting 
into  ropes,  and  for  various  other  purposes. 

Several  troublesome  weeds  I  noticed  in  England 
that  have  not  yet  made  their  appearance  in  this 
country.  Coltsfoot  invests  the  plowed  lands  there, 
sending  up  its  broad  fuzzy  leaves  as  soon  as  the 
grain  is  up,  and  covering  large  areas.  It  is  found 
in  this  country,  but,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  only 
in  out-of-the-way  places. 

Sheep  sorrel  has  come  to  us  from  over  seas,  and 
reddens  many  a  poor  worn-out  field;  but  the  larger 
species  of  sorrel,  Rumex  acetosa,  so  common  in 
English    fields,    and  shooting    up  a  stem    two  feet 


A   GLANCE   AT   BRITISH   WILD   FLOWERS      171 

high,,  was  quite  new  to  me.  Nearly  all  the  related 
species,  the  various  docks,  are  naturalized  upon  our 
shores. 

On  the  whole  the  place  to  see  European  weeds 
is  in  America.  They  run  riot  here.  They  are  like 
boys  out  of  school,  leaping  all  bounds.  They  have 
the  freedom  of  the  whole  broad  land,  and  are  allowed 
to  take  possession  in  a  way  that  would  astonish  a 
British  farmer.  The  Scotch  thistle  is  much  rarer 
in  Scotland  than  in  New  York  or  Massachusetts. 
I  saw  only  one  mullein  by  the  roadside,  and  that 
was  in  Wales,  though  it  flourishes  here  and  there 
throughout  the  island.  The  London  correspondent, 
already  quoted,  says  of  the  mullein:  "One  will 
come  up  in  solitary  glory,  but,  though  it  bears  hun- 
dreds of  flowers,  many  years  will  elapse  before 
another  is  seen  in  the  same  neighborhood.  We 
used  to  say,  '  There  is  a  mullein  coming  up  in  such 
a  place, '  much  as  if  we  had  seen  a  comet ;  and  its 
flannel-like  leaves  and  the  growth  of  its  spike  were 
duly  watched  and  reported  on  day  by  day."  I  did 
not  catch  a  glimpse  of  blue-weed,  Bouncing  Bet, 
elecampane,  live-for-ever,  bladder  campion,  and  oth- 
ers, of  which  I  see  acres  at  home,  though  all  tliese 
weeds  do  grow  there.  They  hunt  the  weeds  mer- 
cilessly; they  have  no  room  for  them.  You  see 
men  and  boys,  women  and  girls,  in  the  meadows  and 
pastures  cutting  them  out.  A  species  of  wild  mus- 
tard infests  the  bgst  grain  lands  in  June;  when  in 
bloom  it  gives  to  the  oat-fields  a  fresh  canary  yel- 
low.     Then  men  and  boys  walk  carefully  through 


172  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  drilled  grain  and  pull  the  mustard  out,  and 
carry  it  away,  leaving  not  one  blossom  visible. 

On  the  whole,  I  should  say  that  the  British  wild 
flowers  were  less  beautiful  than  our  own,  but  more 
abundant  and  noticeable,  and  more  closely  associated 
v/ith  the  country  life  of  the  people;  just  as  their 
birds  are  more  familiar,  abundant,  and  vociferous 
than  our  songsters,  but  not  so  sweet-voiced  and 
plaintively  melodious.  An  agreeable  coarseness  and 
robustness  characterize  most  of  their  flowers,  and 
they  more  than  make  up  in  abundance  where  they 
lack  in  grace. 

The  surprising  delicacy  of  our  first  spring  flow- 
ers, of  the  hepatica,  the  spring  beauty,  the  arbutus, 
the  bloodroot,  the  rue-anemone,  the  dicentra,  — a 
beauty  and  delicacy  that  pertains  to  exclusive  wood 
forms,  —  contrasts  with  the  more  hardy,  hairy,  hedge- 
row look  of  their  firstlings  of  the  sj)ring,  like  the 
primrose,  the  hyacinth,  the  wood  spurge,  the  green 
hellebore,  the  hedge  garlic,  the  moschatel,  the 
daffodil,  the  celandine,  and  others.  Most  of  these 
flowers  take  one  by  their  multitude;  the  primrose 
covers  broad  hedge  banks  for  miles  as  with  a  car- 
pet of  bloom.  In  my  excursions  into  field  and 
forest  I  saw  nothing  of  the  intense  brilliancy  of  our 
cardinal  flower,  which  almost  baflles  the  eye;  no- 
thing with  the  wild  grace  of  our  meadow  or  moun- 
tain lilies;  no  wood  flower  so  taking  to  the  eye  as 
our  painted  trillium  and  lady's-slipper;  no  bog 
flower  that  compares  with  our  calopogon  and  are- 
thusa,    so  common  in   southeastern   New  England; 


A   GLANCE    AT   BRITISH    WILD   FLOWERS       173 

no  brookside  flower  that  equals  our  jewel-weed;  no 
rock  flower  before  which  one  would  pause  with  the 
same  feeling  of  admiration  as  before  our  columbine; 
no  violet  as  striking  as  our  bird's-foot  violet;  no 
trailing  flower  that  approaches  our  matchless  arbu- 
tus; no  fern  as  delicate  as  our  maiden-hair;  no 
flowering  shrub  as  sweet  as  our  azaleas.  In  fact, 
their  flora  presented  a  commoner  type  of  beauty, 
very  comely  and  pleasing,  but  not  so  exquisite  and 
surprising  as  our  own.  The  contrast  is  well  shown 
in  the  flowering  of  the  maples  of  the  two  countries, 
—  that  of  the  European  species  being  stiff  and  coarse 
compared  with  the  fringe-like  grace  and  delicacy  of 
our  maple.  In  like  manner  the  silken  tresses  of 
our  white  pine  contrast  strongly  with  the  coarser 
foliage  of  the  European  pines.  But  what  they 
have,  they  have  in  greatest  profusion.  Few  of 
their  flowers  waste  their  sweetness  on  the  desert 
air;  they  throng  the  fields,  lanes,  and  highways, 
and  are  known  and  seen  of  all.  They  bloom  on  the 
housetops,  and  wave  from  the  summits  of  castle 
walls.  The  spring  meadows  are  carpeted  with 
flowers,  and  the  midsummer  grain-fields,  from  one 
end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other,  are  spotted  with 
fire  and  gold  in  the  scarlet  poppies  and  corn  mari- 
golds. 

I  plucked  but  one  white  pond-lily,  and  that  was 
in  the  Kew  Gardens,  where  I  suppose  the  plucking 
was  trespassing.  Its  petals  were  slightly  blunter 
than  ours,  and  it  had  no  perfume.  Indeed,  in  the 
matter  of  sweet-scented  flowers,  our  flora  shows  by 


174  FRESH   FIELDS 

far  the  more  varieties,  the  British  flora  seeming 
richer  in  this  respect  by  reason  of  the  abundance  of 
specimens  of  any  given  kind. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  flowery  land;  a  kind  of  perpetual 
spring-time  reigns  there,  a  perennial  freshness  and 
bloom  such  as  our  fierce  skies  do  not  permit. 


t^-i. 


IX 

BRITISH  FERTILITY 


TN  crossing  the  Atlantic  from  the  New  World  to 
-^  the  Old,  one  of  the  first  intimations  the  traveler 
has  that  he  is  nearing  a  strange  shore,  and  an  old 
and  populous  one,  is  the  greater  boldness  and  famil- 
iarity of  the  swarms  of  sea-gulls  that  begin  to  hover 
in  the  wake  of  the  ship,  and  dive  and  contend  with 
each  other  for  the  fragments  and  parings  thrown 
overboard  from  the  pantry.  They  have  at  once  a 
different  air  and  manner  from  those  we  left  behind. 
How  bold  and  tireless  they  are,  pursuing  the  ves- 
sel from  dawn  to  dark,  and  coming  almost  near 
enough  to  take  the  food  out  of  your  hand  as  you 
lean  over  the  bulwarks.  It  is  a  sign  in  the  air;  it 
tells  the  whole  story  of  the  hungry  and  populous 
countries  you  are  approaching;  it  is  swarming  and 
omnivorous  Europe  come  out  to  meet  you.  You 
are  near  the  sea-marge  of  a  land  teeming  with  life, 
a  land  where  the  prevailing  forms  are  indeed  few, 
but  these  on  the  most  copious  and  vehement  scale ; 
where  the  birds  and  animals  are  not  only  more 
numerous  than  at  home,  but  more  dominating  and 
aggressive,   more  closely  associated  with  man,  con- 


176  FKESH   FIELDS 

tending  with  him  for  the  fruits  of  the  soil,  learned 
in  his  ways,  full  of  resources,  prolific,  tenacious  of 
life,  not  easily  checked  or  driven  out,  —  in  fact, 
characterized  hy  greater  persistence  and  fecundity. 
This  fact  is  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  strike  the 
American  in  Britain.  There  seems  to  be  an  abo- 
riginal push  and  heat  in  animate  nature  there,  to 
behold  which  is  a  new  experience.  It  is  the  Old 
World,  and  yet  it  really  seems  the  New  in  the 
virility  and  hardihood  of  its  species. 

The  New  Englander  who  sees  with  evil  forebod- 
ings the  rapid  falling  off  of  the  birth-rate  in  his 
own  land,  the  family  rills  shrinking  in  these  later 
generations,  like  his  native  streams  in  summer,  and 
who  consequently  fears  for  the  j^erpetuity  of  the 
race,  may  see  something  to  comfort  him  in  the 
British  islands.  Behold  the  fecundity  of  the  parent 
stock!  The  drought  that  has  fallen  upon  the  older 
parts  of  the  New  World  does  not  seem  to  have 
affected  the  sources  of  being  in  these  islands.  They 
are  apparently  as  copious  and  exhaustless  as  they 
were  three  centuries  ago.  Britain  might  well  ap- 
propriate to  herself  the  last  half  of  Emerson's  qua- 
train :  — 

"  No  numbers  have  counted  ray  tallies, 
No  tribes  my  house  can  fill ;  j 

I  sit  by  the  shining  Fount  of  Life, 
And  pour  the  deluge  still." 

For  it  is  literally  a  deluge;  the  land  is  inundated 
with  humanity.  Thirty  millions  of  people  within 
the  area  of  one  of  our  larger  States,  and  who  shall 


BEITISH    FERTILITY.  177 

say  that  high-water  mark  is  yet  reached?  Every- 
thing betokens  a  race  still  in  its  youth,  still  on  the 
road  to  empire.  The  full- bio odedness,  the  large 
feet  and  hands,  the  prominent  canine  teeth,  the 
stomachic  and  muscular  robustness,  the  health  of 
the  women,  the  savage  jealousy  of  personal  rights, 
the  swarms  upon  swarms  of  children  and  young 
people,  the  delight  in  the  open  air  and  in  athletic 
sports,  the  love  of  danger  and  adventure,  a  certain 
morning  freshness  and  youthfulness  in  their  look, 
as  if  their  food  and  sleep  nourished  them  well, 
together  with  a  certain  animality  and  stupidity,  — 
all  indicate  a  people  who  have  not  yet  slackened 
speed  or  taken  in  sail.  Neither  the  land  nor  the 
race  shows  any  exhaustion.  In  both  there  is  yet 
the  freshness  and  fruitfulness  of  a  new  country. 
You  would  think  the  people  had  just  come  into 
possession  of  a  virgin  soil.  There  is  a  pioneer 
hardiness  and  fertility  about  them.  Families  in- 
crease as  in  our  early  frontier  settlements.  Let  me 
quote  a  paragraph  from  Taine's  "Notes:  "  — 

"An  Englishman  nearly  always  has  many  chil- 
dren, —  the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor.  The  Queen 
has  nine,  and  sets  the  example.      Let  us  run  over 

the  families  we  are  acquainted  with :  Lord lias 

six    children;    the    Marquis    of    ,    twelve;   Sir 

X ,  nine;  Mr.    S ,  a  judge,  twenty-four,  of 

whom  twenty-two   are    living;    several    clergymen, 
five,  six,  and  up  to  ten  and  twelve." 

Thus  is  the  census  kept  up  and  increased.  The 
land,  the  towns  and  cities,  are  like  hives  in  swarm- 


178  FRESH   FIELDS 

ing  time;  a  fertile  queen  indeed,  and  plenty  of 
brood-comb!  Were  it  not  for  the  wildernesses  of 
America,  of  Africa,  and  Australia,  to  which  these 
swarms  migrate,  the  people  would  suffocate  and 
trample  each  other  out.  A  Scotch  or  English  city, 
compared  with  one  of  ours,  is  a  kind  of  duplex  or 
compound  city ;  it  has  a  double  interior,  —  the 
interior  of  the  closes  and  alleys,  in  which  and  out 
of  which  the  people  swarm  like  flies.  Every  coun- 
try village  has  its  closes,  its  streets  between  streets, 
where  the  humbler  portion  of  the  population  is 
packed  away.  This  back-door  humanity  streams 
forth  to  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  carries  the  na- 
tional virtues  with  it.  In  walking  through  some  of 
the  older  portions  of  Edinburgh,  I  was  somehow 
reminded  of  colonies  of  cliff  swallows  I  had  seen  at 
home,  packed  beneath  the  eaves  of  a  farmer's  barn, 
every  inch  of  space  occupied,  the  tenements  crowd- 
ing and  lapping  over  each  other,  the  interstices 
filled,  every  coign  of  vantage  seized  upon,  the  pend- 
ent beds  and  procreant  cradles  ranked  one  above 
another,  and  showing  all  manner  of  quaint  and  in- 
genious forms  and  adaptability  to  circumstances. 
In  both  London  and  Edinburgh  there  are  streets 
above  streets,  or  huge  viaducts  that  carry  one  tor- 
rent of  humanity  above  another  torrent.  They 
utilize  the  hills  and  depressions  to  make  more  sur- 
face room  for  their  swarming  myriads. 

One  day,  in  my  walk  through  the  Trosachs  in 
the  Highlands,  I  came  upon  a  couple  of  ant-hills 
that  arrested  my  attention.      They  were  a  type  of 


BRITISH    FERTILITY  179 

the  country.  They  were  not  large,  scarcely  larger 
than  a  peck  measure,  hut  never  before  had  I  seen 
ant-hills  so  populous  and  so  lively.  They  were 
living  masses  of  ants,  while  the  ground  for  yards 
about  literally  rustled  with  their  numbers.  I  knew 
ant-hills  at  home,  and  had  noted  them  carefully, 
hills  that  would  fill  a  cart-box;  but  they  were  like 
empty  tenements  compared  with  these,  a  fort  gar- 
risoned with  a  company  instead  of  an  army  corps. 
These  hills  stood  in  thin  woods  by  the  roadside. 
From  each  of  them  radiated  five  main  highways, 
like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel.  These  highways  were 
clearly  defined  to  the  eye,  the  grass  and  leaves 
being  slightly  beaten  down.  Along  each  one  of 
them  there  was  a  double  line  of  ants,  —  one  line 
going  out  for  supplies  and  the  other  returning  with 
booty,  —  worms,  flies,  insects,  a  constant  stream  of 
game  going  into  the  capitol.  If  the  ants,  with  any 
given  worm  or  bug,  got  stuck,  those  passing  out 
would  turn  and  lend  a  helping  hand.  The  ground 
between  the  main  highways  was  being  threaded  in 
all  directions  by  individual  ants,  beating  up  and 
down  for  game.  The  same  was  true  of  the  surface 
all  about  the  terminus  of  the  roads,  several  yards 
distant.  If  I  stood  a  few  moments  in  one  place, 
the  ants  would  begin  to  climb  up  my  shoes  and  so 
up  my  legs.  Stamping  them  off  seemed  only  to 
alarm  and  enrage  the  whole  camp,  so  tliat  I  wouhl 
presently  be  compelled  to  retreat.  Seeing  a  big 
straddling  beetle,  I  caught  him  and  dropped  him 
upon  the  nest.      The  ants  attacked  him  as  wolves 


180  FRESH   FIELDS 

might  attack  an  elephant.  They  clung  to  his  legs, 
they  mounted  his  back,  and  assaulted  him  in  front. 
As  he  rushed  through  and  over  their  ranks,  down 
the  side  of  the  mound,  those  clinging  to  his  legs 
were  caught  hold  of  by  others,  till  lines  of  four  or 
five  ants  w^ere  being  jerked  along  by  each  of  his  six 
legs.  The  infuriated  beetle  cleared  the  mound, 
and  crawled  under  leaves  and  sticks  to  sweep  off  his 
clinging  enemies,  and  finally  seemed  to  escape  them 
by  burying  himself  in  the  earth.  Then  I  took  one 
of  those  large,  black,  shelless  snails  with  which  this 
land  abounds,  a  snail  the  size  of  my  thumb,  and 
dropped  it  upon  the  nest.  The  ants  swarmed  upon 
it  at  once,  and  began  to  sink  their  jaws  into  it. 
This  woke  the  snail  up  to  the  true  situation,  and 
it  showed  itself  not  without  resources  against  its 
enemies.  Flee,  like  the  beetle,  it  could  not,  but 
it  bore  an  invisible  armor;  it  began  to  excrete  from 
every  pore  of  its  body  a  thick,  whitish,  viscid  sub- 
stance, that  tied  every  ant  that  came  in  contact 
with  it,  hand  and  foot,  in  a  twinkling.  When  a 
thick  coating  of  this  impromptu  bird-lime  had  been 
exuded,  the  snail  wriggled  right  and  left  a  few 
times,  partly  sloughing  it  off,  and  thus  ingulfing 
hundreds  of  its  antagonists.  Never  was  army  of 
ants  or  of  men  bound  in  such  a  Stygian  quagmire 
before.  New  phalanxes  rushed  up  and  tried  to 
scale  the  mass;  most  of  them  were  mired  like  their 
fellows,  but  a  few  succeeded  and  gained  the  snail's 
back;  then  began  the  preparation  of  another  ava- 
lanche of  glue;  the  creature  seemed  to  dwindle  in 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  181 

size,  and  to  nerve  itself  to  the  work;  as  fast  as  the 
ants  reached  him  in  any  number  he  ingulfed  them; 
he  poured  the  vials  of  his  glutinous  wrath  upon 
them  till  he  had  formed  quite  a  rampart  of  cemented 
and  helpless  ants  about  him;  fresh  ones  constantly 
coming  up  laid  hold  of  the  barricade  witli  their 
jaws,  and  were  often  hung  that  way.  I  lingered 
half  an  hour  or  more  to  see  the  issue,  but  was 
finally  compelled  to  come  away  before  the  closing 
scene.  I  presume  the  ants  finally  triumphed.  Tlie 
snail  had  nearly  exhausted  its  ammunition;  each 
new  broadside  took  more  and  more  time  and  was 
less  and  less  eff'ective;  while  the  ants  had  unlimited 
resources,  and  could  make  bridges  of  their  sunken 
armies.  But  how  they  finally  freed  themselves  and 
their  mound  of  that  viscid,  sloughing  monster  I 
should  be  glad  to  know. 

But  it  was  not  these  incidents  that  impressed  me 
so  much  as  the  numbers  and  the  animation  of  the 
ants,  and  their  raiding,  buccaneering  propensities. 
When  I  came  to  London,  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  ant-hill  I  had  seen  in  the  North.  This,  I 
said,  is  the  biggest  ant-hill  yet.  See  the  great 
steam  highways,  leading  to  all  points  of  the  ct>m- 
pass;  see  the  myriads  swarming,  jostling  each  otlier 
in  the  streets,  and  overflowing  all  the  surrounding 
country.  See  the  underground  tunnels  and  galler- 
ies and  the  overground  viaducts;  see  the  activity 
and  the  supplies,  the  whole  earth  the  hunting- 
ground  of  these  insects  and  rustling  with  their  mul- 
titudinous   stir.      One    may    be    pardoned,    in    the 


182  FKESH   FIELDS 

presence  of  such  an  enormous  aggregate  of  human- 
ity as  London  shows,  for  thinking  of  insects.  Men 
and  women  seem  cheapened  and  belittled,  as  if  the 
spawn  of  blow-flies  had  turned  to  human  beings. 
How  the  throng  stream  on  interminably,  the  streets 
like  river-beds,  full  to  their  banks!  One  hardly 
notes  the  units,  —  he  sees  only  the  black  tide.  He 
loses  himself,  and  becomes  an  insignificant  ant  with 
the  rest.  He  is  borne  along  through  the  galleries 
and  passages  to  the  underground  railway,  and  is 
swept  forward  like  a  drop  in  the  sea.  I  used  to 
make  frequent  trips  to  the  country,  or  seek  out 
some  empty  nook  in  St.  Paul's,  to  come  to  my 
senses.  But  it  requires  no  ordinary  effort  to  find 
one's  self  in  St.  Paul's,  and  in  the  country  you 
must  walk  fast  or  London  will  overtake  you.  When 
I  would  think  I  had  a  stretch  of  road  all  to  myself, 
a  troop  of  London  bicyclists  would  steal  up  behind 
me  and  suddenly  file  by  like  spectres.  The  whole 
land  is  London-struck.  You  feel  the  suction  of 
the  huge  city  wherever  you  are.  It  draws  like  a 
cyclone;  every  current  tends  that  way.  It  would 
seem  as  if  cities  and  towns  were  constantly  breaking 
from  their  moorings  and  drifting  thitherward  and 
joining  themselves  to  it.  On  every  side  one  finds 
smaller  cities  welded  fast.  It  spreads  like  a  malig- 
nant growth,  that  involves  first  one  organ  and  then 
another.  But  it  is  not  malignant.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  perhaps  as  normal  and  legitimate  a  city 
as  there  is  on  the  globe.  It  is  the  proper  outcome 
and  expression  of  that  fertile  and  bountiful  land, 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  183 

and  that  hardy,  multiplying  race.  It  seems  less 
the  residt  of  trade  and  commerce,  and  more  the 
result  of  the  domestic  home-seeking  and  home-ljuihl- 
ing  instinct,  than  any  other  city  I  have  yet  seen. 
I  felt,  and  yet  feel,  its  attraction.  It  is  sucli  an 
aggregate  of  actual  human  dwellings  tliat  this  feel- 
ing pervades  the  very  air.  All  its  vast  and  multi- 
plex industries,  and  its  traffic,  seem  domestic,  like 
the  chores  about  the  household.  I  used  to  get 
glimpses  of  it  from  the  northwest  borders,  from 
Hampstead  Heath,  and  from  about  Highgate,  lying 
there  in  the  broad,  gentle  valley  of  the  Thames, 
like  an  enormous  country  village  —  a  village  with 
nearly  four  million  souls,  where  people  find  life 
sweet  and  wholesome,  and  keep  a  rustic  freshness  of 
look  and  sobriety  of  manner.  See  their  vast  parks 
and  pleasure  grounds;  see  the  upper  Thames,  of  a 
bright  Sunday,  alive  with  rowing  parties;  see  them 
picnicking  in  all  the  country  adjacent.  Indeed,  in 
summer  a  social  and  even  festive  air  broods  over 
the  whole  vast  encampment.  There  is  squalor  and 
misery  enough,  of  course,  and  too  much,  but  this 
takes  itself  away  to  holes  and  corners. 

II 

A  fertile  race,  a  fertile  nature,  swarm  in  these 
islands.  The  climate  is  a  kind  of  prolonged  May, 
and  a  vernal  lustiness  and  raciness  are  characteristic 
of  all  the  prevailing  forms.  Life  is  rank  and  full. 
Keproduction  is  easy.  There  is  plenty  of  sap, 
plenty  of  blood.      The  salt   of  the  sea  prickles  in 


184  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  veins;  the  spawning  waters  have  imparted  their 
virility  to  the  land.  'T  is  a  tropical  and  an  arctic 
nature  combined,  the  fruitfulness  of  one  and  the 
activity  of  the  other. 

The  national  poet  is  Shakespeare.  In  him  we 
get  the  literary  and  artistic  equivalents  of  this  teem- 
ing, racy,  juicy  land  and  people.  It  needs  just 
such  a  soil,  just  such  a  background,  to  account  for 
him.  The  poetic  value  of  this  continence  on  the 
one  hand,  and  of  this  riot  and  prodigality  on  the 
other,  is  in  his  pages. 

The  teeming  human  populations  reflect  only  the 
general  law:  there  is  the  same  fullness  of  life  in 
the  lower  types,  the  same  push  and  hardiness.  It 
is  the  opinion  of  naturalists  that  the  prevailing 
European  forms  are  a  later  production  than  those  of 
the  southern  hemisphere  or  of  the  United  States, 
and  hence,  according  to  Darwin's  law,  should  be 
more  versatile  and  dominating.  That  this  last  fact 
holds  good  with  regard  to  them,  no  competent 
observer  can  fail  to  see.  When  European  plants 
and  animals  come  into  competition  with  American, 
the  latter,  for  the  most  part,  go  to  the  wall,  as  do 
the  natives  in  Australia.  Or  shall  we  say  that  the 
native  species  flee  before  the  advent  of  civilization, 
the  denuding  the  land  of  its  forests,  and  the  Euro- 
pean species  come  in  and  take  their  place?  Yet 
the  fact  remains,  that  that  trait  or  tendency  to  per- 
sist in  the  face  of  obstacles,  to  hang  on  by  tooth 
and  nail,  ready  in  new  expedients,  thriving  where 
others  starve,  climbing  where  others  fall,  multiply- 


BRITISH    FERTILITY  185 

ing  where  others  perish,  like  certain  weeds,  wliich 
if  you  check  the  seed,  will  increase  at  the  root,  is 
more  marked  in  the  forms  that  have  come  to  us 
from  Europe  than  in  the  native  inhabitants.  Nearly 
everything  that  has  come  to  this  country  from  the 
Old  AVorld  has  come  prepared  to  fight  its  way 
through  and  take  possession.  The  European  or 
Old  World  man,  the  Old  World  animals,  the  Old 
World  grasses  and  grains,  and  weeds  and  vermin, 
are  in  possession  of  the  land,  and  the  native  species 
have  given  way  before  them.  The  honey-bee,  with 
its  greed,  its  industry,  and  its  swarms,  is  a  fair 
type  of  the  rest.  The  English  house  sparrow, 
which  we  were  at  such  pains  to  introduce,  breeds 
like  vermin  and  threatens  to  become  a  plague  in  the 
land.  Nearly  all  our  troublesome  weeds  are  Euro- 
pean. When  a  new  species  gets  a  foothold  here, 
it  spreads  like  fire.  The  European  rats  and  mice 
would  eat  us  up,  were  it  not  for  the  European  cats 
we  breed.  The  wolf  not  only  keeps  a  foothold  in 
old  and  populous  countries  like  France  and  Ger- 
many, but  in  the  former  country  has  so  increased 
of  late  years  that  the  government  has  offered  an 
additional  bounty  upon  their  pelts.  When  has  an 
American  wolf  been  seen  or  heard  in  our  compar- 
atively sparsely  settled  Eastern  or  jMiddle  States'? 
They  have  disappeared  as  completely  as  the  beavers. 
Yet  is  it  probably  true  that,  in  a  new  country  like 
ours,  a  tendency  slowly  develops  itself  among  tlie 
wild  creatures  to  return  and  repossess  the  land 
under  the  altered   conditions.      It  is   so   with   the 


186  FRESH   FIELDS 

plants,  and  probably  so  with  the  animals.  Thus, 
the  chimney  swallows  give  up  the  hollow  tre6s  for 
the  chimneys,  the  cliff  swallows  desert  the  cliffs 
for  the  eaves  of  the  barns,  the  squirrels  find  they 
can  live  in  and  about  the  fields,  etc.  In  my  own 
locality,  our  native  mice  are  becoming  much  more 
numerous  about  the  buildings  than  formerly;  in 
the  older  settled  portions  of  the  country,  the  flying 
squirrel  often  breeds  in  the  houses;  the  wolf  does 
not  seem  to  let  go  in  the  West  as  readily  as  he  did 
in  the  East ;  the  black  bear  is  coming  back  to  parts 
of  the  country  where  it  had  not  been  seen  for  thirty 
years. 

I  noticed  many  traits  among  the  British  animals 
and  birds  that  looked  like  the  result  both  of  the 
sharp  competition  going  on  among  themselves  in 
their  crowded  ranks  and  of  association  with  man. 
Thus,  the  partridge  not  only  covers  her  nest,  but 
carefully  arranges  the  grass  about  it  so  that  no  mark 
of  her  track  to  and  fro  can  be  seen.  The  field 
mouse  lays  up  a  store  of  grain  in  its  den  in  the 
ground,  and  then  stops  up  the  entrance  from  within. 
The  woodcock,  when  disturbed,  flies  away  with  one 
of  her  young  snatched  up  between  her  legs,  and 
returns  for  another  and  another.  The  sea-gulls 
devour  the  grain  in  the  fields ;  the  wild  ducks  feed 
upon  the  oats;  the  crows  and  jackdaws  pull  up  the 
sprouts  of  the  newly-planted  potatoes;  the  grouse, 
partridges,  pigeons,  fieldfares,  etc.,  attack  the  tur- 
nips; the  hawk  frequently  snatches  the  wounded 
game  from  under  the  gun  of   the  sportsman;  the 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  187 

crows  perch  upon  the  tops  of  the  chimneys  of  the 
houses ;  in  the  East  the  stork  builds  upon  the  house- 
tops, in  the  midst  of  cities;  in  Scotland  the  rats 
follow  the  birds  and  the  Highlanders  to  the  herring 
fisheries  along  the  coast,  and  disperse  with  them 
when  the  season  is  over;  the  eagle  continues  to 
breed  in  the  mountains  with  the  prize  of  a  guinea 
upon  every  egg;  the  rabbits  have  to  be  kept  down 
with  nets  and  ferrets;  the  game  birds  —  grouse, 
partridges,  ducks,  geese  —  contuiue  to  swarm  in  the 
face  of  the  most  inveterate  race  of  sportsmen  under 
the  sun,  and  in  a  country  where  it  is  said  the  crows 
destroy  more  game  than  all  the  guns  in  the  king- 
dom. 

Many  of  the  wild  birds,  when  incubating,  will 
allow  themselves  to  be  touched  by  the  hand.  The 
fox  frequently  passes  the  day  under  some  covered 
drain  or  under  some  shelving  bank  near  the  farm 
buildings.  The  otter,  which  so  long  ago  disap- 
peared from  our  streams,  still  holds  its  own  in  Scot- 
land, though  trapped  and  shot  on  all  occasions.  A 
mother  otter  has  been  known  boldly  to  confront  a 
man  carrying  off  her  young. 

Thomas  Edward,  the  shoemaker-naturalist  of  Ab- 
erdeen, relates  many  adventures  he  had  during  liis 
nocturnal  explorations  with  weasels,  polecats,  badg- 
ers, owls,  rats,  etc.,  in  which  these  creatures 
showed  astonishing  boldness  and  audacity.  ( )n  one 
occasion,  a  weasel  actually  attacked  him;  on  an- 
other, a  polecat  made  repeated  attempts  to  take  a 
moor-hen  from  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  while 


188        '  FRESH   FIELDS 

he  was  trying  to  sleep.  On  still  another  occasion, 
while  he  was  taking  a  nap,  an  owl  robbed  him  of 
a  mouse  which  he  wished  to  take  home  alive,  and 
which  was  tied  by  a  string  to  his  waistcoat.  He 
says  he  has  put  his  walking  stick  into  the  mouth  of 
a  fox  just  roused  from  his  lair,  and  the  fox  worried 
the  stick  and  took  it  away  with  him.  Once,  in 
descending  a  precij)ice,  he  cornered  two  foxes  upon 
a  shelf  of  rock,  when  the  brutes  growled  at  him 
and  showed  their  teeth  threateningly.  As  he  let 
himself  down  to  kick  them  out  of  his  way,  they 
bolted  up  the  precipice  over  his  person.  Along  the 
Scottish  coast,  crows  break  open  shell-fish  by  carry- 
ing them  high  in  the  air  and  letting  them  drop 
upon  the  rocks.  This  is  about  as  thoughtful  a  pro- 
ceeding as  that  of  certain  birds  of  South  Africa, 
which  fly  amid  the  clouds  of  migrating  locusts  and 
clip  off  the  wings  of  the  insects  with  their  sharp 
beaks,  causing  them  to  fall  to  the  ground,  where 
they  are  devoured  at  leisure.  Among  the  High- 
lands, the  eagles  live  upon  hares  and  young  lambs; 
when  the  shepherds  kill  the  eagles,  the  hares  in- 
crease so  fast  that  they  eat  up  all  the  grass,  and 
the  flocks  still  suffer. 

The  scenes  along  the  coast  of  Scotland  during  the 
herring-fishing,  as  described  by  Charles  St.  John 
in  his  "Natural  History  and  Sport  in  Moray,"  are 
characteristic.  The  herrings  appear  in  innumerable 
shoals,  and  are  pursued  by  tens  of  thousands  of 
birds  in  the  air,  and  by  the  hosts  of  their  enemies 
of  the  deep.      Salmon  and  dog-fish  prey  upon  them 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  189 

from  beneath;  giills,  gannets,  cormorants,  and  solan 
geese  prey  upon  them  from  above;  while  the  fisher- 
men from  a  vast  fleet  of  boats  scoop  them  up  by 
the  million.  The  birds  plunge  and  scream,  the 
men  shout  and  labor,  the  sea  is  covered  with  broken 
and  wounded  fish,  the  shore  exhales  the  odor  of  the 
decaying  offal,  which  also  attracts  the  birds  and 
the  vermin;  and,  altogether,  the  scene  is  thoroughly 
European.  Yet  the  herring  supply  does  not  fail; 
and  when  the  shoals  go  into  the  lochs,  the  people 
say  they  contain  two  parts  fish  to  one  of  water. 

One  of  the  most  significant  facts  I  observed  while 
in  England  and  Scotland  was  the  number  of  eggs  in 
the  birds' -nests.  The  first  nest  I  saw,  which  was 
that  of  the  meadow  pipit,  held  six  eggs;  the  sec- 
ond, which  was  that  of  the  willow  warbler,  con- 
tained seven.  Are  these  British  birds,  then,  I 
said,  like  the  people,  really  more  prolific  than  our 
own?  Such  is,  undoubtedly,  the  fact.  The  nests 
I  had  observed  were  not  exceptional;  and  when  a 
boy  told  me  he  knew  of  a  wren's  nest  with  twenty- 
six  eggs  in  it,  I  was  half  inclined  to  believe  him. 
The  common  British  wren,  which  is  nearly  identi- 
cal with  our  winter  wren,  often  does  lay  upward  of 
twenty  eggs,  while  ours  lays  five  or  six.  The  long- 
tailed  titmouse  lays  from  ten  to  twelve  eggs;  the 
marsh  tit,  from  eight  to  ten ;  the  great  tit,  from  six 
to  nine ;  the  blue-bonnet,  from  six  to  eighteen ;  the 
wryneck,  often  as  many  as  ten ;  the  nuthatch,  seven ; 
the  brown  creeper,  nine;  the  kinglet,  eight;  the 
robin,  seven;  the  flycatcher,  eight;  and  soon,  — all, 


190  FRESH   FIELDS 

or  nearly  all,  exceeding  the  number  laid  by  corre- 
sponding species  in  this  country.  The  highest 
number  of  eggs  of  the  majority  of  our  birds  is 
five;  some  of  the  wrens  and  creepers  and  titmice 
produce  six,  or  even  more;  but  as  a  rule  one  sees 
only  three  or  four  eggs  in  the  nests  of  our  common 
birds.  Our  quail  seems  to  produce  more  eggs  than 
the  European  species,  and  our  swift  more. 

Then  this  superabundance  of  eggs  is  protected  by 
such  warm  and  compact  nests.  The  nest  of  the 
willow  warbler,  to  which  I  have  referred,  is  a  kind 
of  thatched  cottage  upholstered  with  feathers.  It 
is  placed  upon  the  ground,  and  is  dome-shaped,  like 
that  of  our  meadow  mouse,  the  entrance  being  on 
the  side.  The  chaffinch,  the  most  abundant  and 
universal  of  the  British  birds,  builds  a  nest  in  the 
white  thorn  that  is  a  marvel  of  compactness  and 
neatness.  It  is  made  mainly  of  fine  moss  and 
wool.  The  nest  of  Jenny  Wren,  with  its  dozen 
or  more  of  eggs,  is  too  perfect  for  art,  and  too 
cunning  for  nature.  Those  I  saw  were  placed  amid 
the  roots  of  trees  on  a  steep  bank  by  the  roadside. 
You  behold  a  mass  of  fine  green  moss  set  in  an 
irregular  framework  of  roots,  with  a  round  hole  in 
the  middle  of  it.  As  far  in  as  your  finger  can 
reach,  it  is  exquisitely  soft  and  delicately  modeled. 
When  removed  from  its  place,  it  is  a  large  mass  of 
moss  with  the  nest  at  the  heart  of  it. 

Then  add  to  these  things  the  comparative  immu- 
nity from  the  many  dangers  that  beset  the  nests  of 
our  birds,  —  dangers  from  squirrels,  snakes,  crows. 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  101 

owls,  weasels,  etc.,  and  from  violent  storms  and 
tempests,  —  and  one  can  quickly  see  why  the  1  Brit- 
ish birds  so  thrive  and  abound.  Tliere  is  a  cliaf- 
finch  for  every  tree,  and  a  rook  and  a  starling  for 
every  square  rod  of  ground.  I  think  there  would 
be  still  more  starlings  if  they  could  find  places  to 
build,  but  every  available  spot  is  occupied;  every 
hole  in  a  wall,  or  tower,  or  tree,  or  stump;  every 
niche  about  the  farm  buildings;  every  throat  of  the 
grinning  gargoyles  about  the  old  churches  and  cathe- 
drals; every  cranny  in  towers  and  steeples  and  cas- 
tle parapet,  and  the  mouth  of  every  rain-spout  and 
gutter  in  which  they  can  find  a  lodgment. 

The  ruins  of  the  old  castles  afford  a  harbor  to 
many  species,  the  most  noticeable  of  which  are  spar- 
rows, starlings,  doves,  and  swallows.  Rochester 
Castle,  the  main  tower  or  citadel  of  which  is  yet  in 
a  good  state  of  preservation,  is  one  vast  dove-cote. 
The  woman  in  charge  told  me  there  were  then  about 
six  hundred  doves  there.  They  whitened  the  air 
as  they  flew  and  circled  about.  From  time  to  time 
they  are  killed  off  and  sent  to  market.  At  sun- 
down, after  the  doves  had  gone  to  roost,  the  swifts 
appeared,  seeking  out  their  crannies.  For  a  few 
moments  the  air  was  dark  with  them. 

Look  also  at  the  rooks.  They  follow  the  plowmen 
like  chickens,  picking  up  the  grulis  and  worms; 
and  chickens  they  are,  sable  farm  fowls  of  a  wider 
range.  Young  rooks  are  esteemed  a  great  delicacy. 
The  four-and-twenty  blackbirds  baked  in  a  pie,  and 
set  before   the   king,   of   the   nursery  rhyme,   were 


192  FRESH   FIELDS 

very  likely  four-and-twenty  young  rooks.  Rook- 
pie  is  a  national  dish,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
young  birds  are  slaughtered  in  sufficient  numbers  to 
exterminate  the  species  in  a  few  years.  But  they 
have  to  be  kept  under,  like  the  rabbits;  inasmuch 
as  they  do  not  emigrate,  like  the  people.  I  had 
heard  vaguely  that  our  British  cousins  eschewed  all 
pie  except  rook-pie,  but  I  did  not  fully  realize  the 
fact  till  I  saw  them  shooting  the  young  birds  and 
shipping  them  to  market.  A  rookery  in  one's  grove, 
or  shade-trees  may  be  quite  a  source  of  profit.  The 
young  birds  are  killed  just  before  they  are  able  to 
fly,  and  when  they  first  venture  upon  the  outer  rim 
of  the  nest  or  perch  upon  the  near  branches.  I 
witnessed  this  chicken-killing  in  a  rookery  on  the 
banks  of  the  Doon.  The  ruins  of  an  old  castle 
crowned  the  height  overgrown  with  forest  trees.  In 
these  trees  the  rooks  nested,  much  after  the  fashion 
of  our  wild  pigeons.  A  young  man  with  a  rifle 
was  having  a  little  sport  by  shooting  the  young 
rooks  for  the  gamekeeper.  There  appeared  to  be 
fewer  than  a  hundred  nests,  and  yet  I  was  told  that 
as  many  as  thirty  dozen  young  rooks  had  been  shot 
there  that  season.  During  the  firing  the  parent 
birds  circle  high  aloft,  uttering  their  distressed 
cries.  Apparently,  no  attempt  is  made  to  conceal 
the  nests ;  they  are  placed  far  out  upon  the  branches, 
several  close  together,  showing  as  large  dense  masses 
of  sticks  and  twigs.  Year  after  year  the  young  are 
killed,  and  yet  the  rookery  is  not  abandoned,  nor 
the  old  birds  discouraged.      It  is  to  be  added  that 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  193 

this  species  is  not  the  carrion  crow,  like  ours, 
though  so  closely  resembling  it  in  appearance.  It 
picks  up  its  subsistence  about  the  fields,  and  is  not 
considered  an  unclean  bird.  The  British  carrion 
crow  is  a  much  more  rare  species.  It  is  a  strong, 
fierce  bird,  and  often  attacks  and  kills  young  lambs 
or  rabbits. 

What  is  true  of  the  birds  is  true  of  the  rabbits, 
and  probably  of  the  other  smaller  animals.  The 
British  rabbit  breeds  seven  times  a  year,  and  usually 
produces  eight  young  at  a  litter;  while,  so  far  as 
I  have  observed,  the  corresponding  species  in  this 
country  breeds  not  more  than  twice,  producing  from 
three  to  four  young.  The  western  gray  rabbit 
is  said  to  produce  three  or  four  broods  a  year  of 
four  to  six  young.  It  is  calculated  that  in  England 
a  pair  of  rabbits  will,  in  the  course  of  four  years, 
multiply  to  one  million  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand.  If  unchecked  for  one  season,  this  game 
would  eat  the  farmers  up.  In  the  parks  of  the 
Duke  of  Hamilton,  the  rabbits  were  so  numerous 
that  I  think  one  might  have  fired  a  gun  at  random 
with  his  eyes  closed  and  knocked  them  over.  They 
scampered  right  and  left  as  I  advanced,  like  leaves 
blown  bv  the  wind.  Their  cotton  tails  twinkk-d 
thicker  than  fireflies  in  our  summer  night.  In  the 
Highlands,  where  there  were  cultivated  lands,  and 
in  various  other  parts  of  England  and  Scotland  that 
I  visited,  they  were  more  abundant  tlian  chipmunks 
in  our  beechen  woods.  The  revenue  derived  from 
the  sale  of  the  ground  game  on  some  estates  is  an 


194  FRESH   FIELDS 

imiDortant  item.  The  rabbits  are  slaughtered  in  un- 
told numbers  throughout  the  island.  They  shoot 
them,  and  hunt  them  with  ferrets,  and  catch  them 
in  nets  and  gins  and  snares,  and  they  are  the  prin- 
cipal game  of  the  poacher,  and  yet  the  land  is  alive 
with  them.  Thirty  million  skins  are  used  up  an- 
nually in  Great  Britain,  besides  several  million  hare 
skins.  The  fur  is  used  for  stuffing  beds,  and  is 
also  made  into  yarn  and  cloth. 

But  the  Colorado  beetle  is  our  own,  and  it  shows 
many  of  the  European  virtues.  It  is  sufficiently 
prolific  and  persistent  to  satisfy  any  standard;  but 
we  cannot  claim  all  the  qualities  for  it  till  it  has 
crossed  the  Atlantic  and  established  itself  on  the 
other  side. 

There  are  other  forms  of  life  in  which  we  surpass 
the  mother  country.  I  did  not  hear  the  voice  of 
frog  or  toad  while  I  was  in  England.  Their  marshes 
w^ere  silent;  their  summer  nights  were  voiceless. 
I  longed  for  the  multitudinous  chorus  of  my  own 
bog;  for  the  tiny  silver  bells  of  our  hylas,  the  long- 
drawn  and  soothing  tr-r-r-r-r  of  our  twilight  toads, 
and  the  rattling  drums,  kettle  and  bass,  of  our  pond 
frogs.  Their  insect  world,  too,  is  far  behind  ours; 
no  fiddling  grasshoppers,  no  purring  tree- crickets, 
no  scraping  katydids,  no  whirring  cicadas ;  no  sounds 
from  any  of  these  sources  by  meadow  or  grove,  by 
night  or  day,  that  I  could  ever  hear.  We  have  a 
large  orchestra  of  insect  musicians,  ranging  from 
that  tiny  performer  that  picks  the  strings  of  his 
instrument  so  daintily  in  the  summer  twilight,  to 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  195 

the  shrill  and  piercing  crescendo  of  the  harvest-fly. 
A  young  Englishman  who  hatl  traveled  over  this 
country  told  me  he  thought  we  liad  the  noisiest 
nature  in  the  world.  English  midsummer  nature 
is  the  other  extreme  of  stillness.  The  long  twilight 
is  unbroken  by  a  sound,  unless  in  places  by  the 
"clanging  rookery."  The  British  bumblebee,  a 
hairy,  short- waisted  fellow,  has  the  same  soft,  mel- 
low bass  as  our  native  bee,  and  his  habits  appear 
much  the  same,  except  that  he  can  stand  the  cold 
and  the  wet  much  better  (I  used  to  see  them  very 
lively  after  sundown,  when  I  was  shivering  with 
my  overcoat  on),  and  digs  his  own  hole  like  the 
rabbit,  which  ours  does  not.  Sitting  in  the  woods 
one  day,  a  bumblebee  alighted  near  me  on  the 
ground,  and,  scraping  away  the  surface  mould, 
began  to  bite  and  dig  his  way  into  the  earth,  —  a 
true  Britisher,  able  to  dig  his  own  hole. 

In  the  matter  of  squirrel  life,  too,  we  are  far 
ahead  of  England.  I  believe  there  are  more  red 
squirrels,  to  say  nothing  of  gray  squirrels,  flying 
squirrels,  and  chipmunks,  within  half  a  mile  of  my 
house  than  in  any  county  in  England.  In  all  my 
loitering  and  prying  about  the  woods  and  groves 
there,  I  saw  but  two  squirrels.  The  species  is  larger 
than  ours,  longer  and  softer  furred,  and  appears  to 
have  little  of  the  snickering,  frisking,  attitudinizing 
manner  of  the  American  species.  But  England  is 
the  paradise  of  snails.  Tlie  trail  of  the  snail  is 
over  all.  I  have  counted  a  dozen  on  the  bole  of  a 
single    tree.      I    have    seen    them    hanging    to   the 


196  FRESH   FIELDS 

bushes  and  hedges  like  fruit.  I  heard  a  lady  com- 
plain that  they  got  into  the  kitchen,  crawling  about 
by  night  and  hiding  by  day,  and  baffling  her  efforts 
to  rid  herself  of  them.  The  thrushes  eat  them, 
breaking  their  shells  upon  a  stone.  They  are  said 
to  be  at  times  a  serious  pest  in  the  garden,  devour- 
ing the  young  plants  at  night.  When  did  the 
American  snail  devour  anything,  except,  perhaps, 
now  and  then  a  strawberry?  The  bird  or  other 
creature  that  feeds  on  the  large  black  snail  of  Brit- 
ain, if  such  there  be,  need  never  go  hungry,  for  I 
saw  these  snails  even  on  the  tops  of  mountains. 

The  same  opulence  of  life  that  characterizes  the 
animal  world  in  England  characterizes  the  vegeta- 
ble. I  was  especially  struck,  not  so  much  with  the 
variety  of  wild  flowers,  as  with  their  numbers  and 
wide  distribution.  The  ox-eye  daisy  and  the  but- 
tercup are  good  samples  of  the  fecundity  of  most 
European  plants.  The  foxglove,  the  corn-poppy, 
the  speedwell,  the  wild  hyacinth,  the  primrose,  the 
various  vetches,  and  others  grow  in  nearly  the  same 
profusion.  The  forget-me-not  is  very  common,  and 
the  little  daisy  is  nearly  as  universal  as  the  grass. 
Indeed,  as  I  have  already  stated  in  another  chapter, 
nearly  all  the  British  wild  flowers  seemed  to  grow 
in  the  open  manner  and  in  the  same  abundance  as 
our  goldenrods  and  purple  asters.  They  show  no 
shyness,  no  wildness.  Nature  is  not  stingy  of 
them,  but  fills  her  lap  with  each  in  its  turn.  Eare 
and  delicate  plants,  like  our  arbutus,  certain  of  our 
orchids  and  violets,  that  hide  in  the  woods,  and  are 


BRITISH   FERTILITY  107 

very  fastidious  and  restricted  in  tlieir  range,  proba- 
bly "have  no  parallel  in  England.  The  island  is 
small,  is  well  assorted  and  compacted,  and  is  thor- 
oughly homogeneous  in  its  soil  and  climate;  the 
conditions  of  field  and  forest  and  stream  that  exist 
have  long  existed;  a  settled  permanence  and  equi- 
poise prevail;  every  creature  has  found  its  place, 
every  plant  its  home.  There  are  no  new  experi- 
ments to  be  made,  no  new  risks  to  be  run;  life  in 
all  its  forms  is  established,  and  its  current  main- 
tains a  steady  strength  and  fullness  that  an  observer 
from  our  spasmodic  hemisphere  is  sure  to  appreciate. 


X 

A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW 

I 

"TTTHILE  in  London  I  took  a  bright  Sunday 
'  '  afternoon  to  visit  Chelsea,  and  walk  along 
Cheyne  Row  and  look  upon  the  house  in  which 
Carlyle  passed  nearly  fifty  years  of  his  life,  and  in 
which  he  died.  Many  times  I  paced  to  and  fro. 
I  had  been  there  eleven  years  before,  but  it  was  on 
a  dark,  rainy  night,  and  I  had  brought  away  no 
image  of  the  street  or  house.  The  place  now  had 
a  more  humble  and  neglected  look  than  I  expected 
to  see;  nothing  that  suggested  it  had  ever  been  the 
abode  of  the  foremost  literary  man  of  his  time,  but 
rather  the  home  of  plain,  obscure  persons  of  little 
means.  One  would  have  thought  that  the  long 
residence  there  of  such  a  man  as  Carlyle  would  have 
enhanced  the  value  of  real  estate  for  many  squares 
around,  and  drawn  men  of  wealth  and  genius  to 
that  part  of  the  city.  The  Carlyle  house  was  unoc- 
cupied, and,  with  its  closed  shutters  and  little  pools 
of  black  sooty  water  standing  in  the  brick  area  in 
front  of  the  basement  windows,  looked  dead  and 
deserted  indeed.  But  the  house  itself,  though 
nearly  two  hundred  years  old,  showed  no  signs  of 


200  FRESH   FIELDS 

decay.      It  had  doubtless  witnessed  the  extinction 
of  many  households  before  that  of  the  Carlyles. 

My  own  visit  to  that  house  was  in  one  autumn 
night  in  1871.  Carlyle  was  then  seventy-six  years 
old,  his  wife  had  been  dead  five  years,  his  work 
was  done,  and  his  days  were  pitifully  sad.  He  v/as 
out  taking  his  after-dinner  walk  when  we  arrived, 
Mr.  Conway  and  I;  most  of  his  walking  and  riding, 
it  seems,  was  done  after  dark,  an  indication  in  itself 
of  the  haggard  and  melancholy  frame  of  mind  habit- 
ual to  him.  He  presently  appeared,  wrapped  in  a 
long  gray  coat  that  fell  nearly  to  the  floor.  His 
greeting  was  quiet  and  grandfather] y,  and  that  of 
a  man  burdened  with  his  own  sad  thoughts.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  impression  his  large,  long, 
soft  hand  made  in  mine,  nor  the  look  of  sorrow 
and  sufi'ering  stamped  upon  the  upper  part  of  the 
face,  —  sorrow  mingled  with  yearning  compassion. 
The  eyes  were  bleared  and  filmy  with  unshed  and 
unshedable  tears.  In  pleasing  contrast  to  his  coarse 
hair  and  stiff",  bristly,  iron-gray  beard,  w^as  the 
fresh,  delicate  color  that  just  touched  his  brown 
cheeks,  like  the  tinge  of  poetry  that  plays  over  his 
own  rugged  page.  I  noted  a  certain  shyness  and  deli- 
cacy, too,  in  his  manner,  which  contrasted  in  the 
same  way  with  what  is  alleged  of  his  rudeness  and 
severity.  He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  the 
fingers  thrust  up  through  the  hair,  and,  with  his 
elbow  resting  upon  the  table,  looked  across  to  my 
companion,  who  kept  the  conversation  going.  This 
attitude  he  hardly  changed  during  the   two  hours 


A   SUNDAY  IN   CIIEYNE   liOW  201 

we  sat  there.  How  serious  and  concerned  he  looked, 
and  how  surprising  that  hearty,  soliloquizing  sort 
of  laugh  which  now  and  then  came  from  him  as  he 
talked,  not  so  much  a  laugh  provoked  hy  anything 
humorous  in  the  conversation,  as  a  sort  of  foil  to 
his  thoughts,  as  one  might  say,  after  a  severe  judg- 
ment, "Ah,  well-a-day,  what  matters  it!"  If  that 
laugh  could  have  been  put  in  his  Latter-day  Pam- 
phlets, where  it  would  naturally  come,  or  in  his  later 
political  tracts,  these  j-tublications  would  have  given 
much  less  offense.  But  there  was  amusement  in 
his  laugh  when  I  told  him  we  had  introduced  the 
English  sparrow  in  America.  "  Introduced !  "  he 
repeated,  and  laughed  again.  He  spoke  of  the  bird 
as  a  "comical  little  wretch,"  and  feared  we  should 
regret  the  "introduction."  He  repeated  an  Arab 
proverb  which  says  Solomon's  Temple  was  built 
amid  the  chirping  of  ten  thousand  sparrows,  and 
applied  it  very  humorously  in  the  course  of  his  talk 
to  the  human  sparrows  that  always  stand  ready  to 
chirrup  and  cackle  down  every  great  undertaking. 
He  had  seen  a  cat  walk  slowly  along  the  top  of  a 
fence  while  a  row  of  sparrows  seated  upon  a  ridge- 
board  near  by  all  pointed  at  her  and  chattered  and 
scolded,  and  by  unanimous  vote  i)ronounced  her 
this  and  that,  but  the  cat  went  on  her  way  all  the 
same.  The  verdict  of  majorities  was  not  always 
very  formidable,  however  unanimous. 

A  monument  had  recently  been  erected  to  Scott 
in  Edinburgh,  and  he  had  been  asked  to  take  part 
in  some  attendant  ceremony.      But  he  had  n -fused 


202  FRESH   FIELDS 

peremptorily.  "If  the  angel  Gabriel  had  summoned 
me  I  would  not  have  gone,"  he  said.  It  was  too 
soon  to  erect  a  monument  to  Scott,  Let  them  wait 
a  hundred  years  and  see  how  they  feel  about  it 
then.  He  had  never  met  Scott :  the  nearest  he  had 
come  to  it  was  once  when  he  was  the  bearer  of  a 
message  to  him  from  Goethe;  he  had  rung  at  his 
door  with  some  trepidation,  and  was  relieved  when 
told  that  the  great  man  was  out.  Not  long  after- 
wards he  had  a  glimpse  of  him  while  standing  in 
the  streets  of  Edinburgh.  He  saw  a  large  wagon 
coming  drawn  by  several  horses,  and  containing  a 
great  many  people,  and  there  in  the  midst  of  them, 
full  of  talk  and  hilarity  like  a  great  boy,  sat  Scott. 
Carlyle  had  recently  returned  from  his  annual  visit 
to  Scotland,  and  was  full  of  sad  and  tender  memo- 
ries of  his  native  land.  He  was  a  man  in  whom 
every  beautiful  thing  awakened  melancholy  thoughts. 
He  spoke  of  the  blooming  lasses  and  the  crowds  of 
young  people  he  had  seen  on  the  streets  of  some 
northern  city,  Aberdeen,  I  think,  as  having  filled 
him  with  sadness;  a  kind  of  homesickness  of  the 
soul  was  upon  him,  and  deepened  with  age,  —  a 
solitary  and  a  bereaved  man  from  first  to  last. 

As  I  walked  Cheyne  Eow  that  summer  Sunday 
my  eye  rested  again  and  again  upon  those  three 
stone  steps  that  led  up  to  the  humble  door,  each 
hollowed  out  by  the  attrition  of  the  human  foot, 
the  middle  one,  where  the  force  of  the  footfall 
would  be  greatest,  most  deeply  worn  of  all,  —  worn 
by  hundreds  of  famous  feet,  and  many,  many  more 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       203 

not  famous.  Nearly  every  notable  literary  man  of 
the  century,  both  of  England  and  America,  had 
trod  those  steps.  Emerson's  foot  had  left  its  mark 
there,  if  one  could  have  seen  it,  once  in  his  prime 
and  again  in  his  old  age,  and  it  was  perhaps  of  him 
I  thought,  and  of  his  new-made  grave  there  under 
the  pines  at  Concord,  that  summer  afternoon  as  I 
mused  to  and  fro,  more  than  of  any  other  visitor  to 
that  house.  "  Here  we  are  shoveled  together  again, " 
said  Carlyle  from  behind  his  wife,  with  a  lamp  high 
in  his  hand,  that  October  night  thirty-seven  years 
ago,  as  Jane  opened  the  door  to  Emerson.  The 
friendship,  the  love  of  those  two  men  for  each 
other,  as  revealed  in  their  published  correspondence, 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  episodes  in  English 
literary  history.  The  correspondence  was  opened 
and  invited  by  Emerson,  but  as  years  went  by  it  is 
plain  that  it  became  more  and  more  a  need  and  a 
solace  to  Carlyle.  There  is  something  quite  pathetic 
in  the  way  he  clung  to  Emerson  and  entreated  him 
for  a  fuller  and  more  frequent  evidence  of  his  love. 
The  New  Engiander,  in  some  ways,  ap[)ears  stinted 
and  narrow  beside  him;  Carlyle  was  mucli  the  more 
loving  and  emotional  man.  He  had  less  self-com- 
placency than  Emerson,  was  much  less  stoical,  and 
felt  himself  much  more  alone  in  the  world.  Emer- 
son was  genial  and  benevolent  i'lom  temperament 
and  habit;  Carlyle  was  wrathful  and  vitui)erative, 
while  his  heart  was  really  bursting  with  sympathy 
and  love.  The  savagest  man,  probably,  in  the 
world  in  his  time,  who  had  anything  like  his  eiior- 


204  FRESH   FIELDS 

mous  fund  of  tenderness  and  magnanimity.  He 
was  full  of  contempt  for  the  mass  of  mankind,  but 
he  was  capable  of  loving  particular  men  with  a 
depth  and  an  intensity  that  more  than  makes  the 
account  good.  And  let  me  say  here  that  the  saving 
feature  about  Carlyle's  contempt,  which  is  such  a 
stumbling-block  till  one  has  come  to  understand  it, 
is  its  perfect  sincerity  and  inevitableness,  and  the 
real  humility  in  which  it  has  its  root.  He  cannot 
help  it;  it  is  genuine,  and  has  a  kind  of  felicity. 
Then  there  is  no  malice  or  ill-will  in  it,  but  pity 
rather,  and  pity  springs  from  love.  We  also  know 
that  he  is  always  dominated  by  the  inexorable  con- 
science, and  that  the  standard  by  which  he  tries  men 
is  the  standard  of  absolute  rectitude  and  worthiness. 
Contempt  without  love  and  humility  begets  a  sneer- 
ing, mocking,  deriding  habit  of  mind,  which  was 
far  enough  from  Carlyle's  sorrowing  denunciations. 
"The  quantity  of  sorrow  he  has,  does  it  not  mean 
withal  the  quantity  of  sympathy  he  has,  the  quan- 
tity of  faculty  and  victory  he  shall  yet  have  ?  '  Our 
sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our  nobleness.' 
The  depth  of  our  despair  measures  what  capability, 
and  height  of  claim  we  have,  to  hope."  (Crom- 
well.) Emerson  heard  many  responding  voices, 
touched  and  won  many  hearts,  but  Carlyle  was 
probably  admired  and  feared  more  than  he  was 
loved,  and  love  he  needed  and  valued  above  all  else. 
Hence  his  pathetic  appeals  to  Emerson,  the  one 
man  he  felt  sure  of,  the  one  voice  that  reached  him 
and  moved  him  among  his  contemporaries.     He  felt 


A   SUNDAY   IN   CIIEYNE   ROW  205 

Emerson's  serenity  and  courage,  and  seemed  to  cling 
to,  while  he  ridiculed,  that  New  World  hope  that 
shone  in  him  so  brightly. 

The  ship  that  carries  the  most  sail  is  most  l)uf- 
feted  by  the  winds  and  storms.  Carlyle  carried 
more  sail  than  Emerson  did,  and  the  very  winds  of 
the  globe  he  confronted  and  opposed;  the  one  great 
movement  of  the  modern  world,  the  democratic 
movement,  the  coming  forward  of  the  people  in 
their  own  right,  he  assailed  and  ridiculed  in  a 
vocabulary  the  most  copious  and  telling  that  was 
probably  ever  used,  and  with  a  concern  and  a  seri- 
ousness most  impressive. 

Much  as  we  love  and  revere  Emerson,  and  im- 
measurable as  his  service  has  been,  especially  to  the 
younger  and  more  penetrating  minds,  I  think  it  will 
not  do  at  all  to  say,  as  one  of  our  critics  (Mr.  Sted- 
man)  has  lately  said,  that  Emerson  is  as  "far  above 
Carlyle  as  the  affairs  of  the  soul  and  universe  are 
above  those  of  the  contemporary  or  even  the  his- 
toric world."  Above  him  he  certainly  was,  in  a 
thinner,  colder  air,  but  not  in  any  sense  that  imjjlies 
greater  power  or  a  farther  range.  His  sympathies 
with  the  concrete  world  and  his  gripe  upon  it  were 
far  less  than  Carlyle's.  He  bore  no  such  burden, 
he  fought  no  such  battle,  as  the  latter  did.  His 
mass,  his  velocity,  his  penetrating  power,  are  far 
less.  •  A  tranquil,  high-sailing,  fair-weather  cloud 
is  Emerson,  and  a  massive,  heavy-laden  storm-cloud 
is  Carlyle.  Carlyle  was  never  placidly  sounding 
the  azure  depths  like  Emerson,  but  always  pouring 


206  FRESH   FIELDS 

and  rolling  earthward,  with  wind,  thunder,  rain, 
and  hail.  He  reaches  up  to  the  Emersonian  alti- 
tudes, but  seldom  disports  himself  there ;  never  loses 
himself,  as  Emerson  sometimes  does;  the  absorption 
takes  place  in  the  other  direction;  he  descends  to 
actual  affairs  and  events  with  fierce  precipitation. 
Carlyle's  own  verdict,  written  in  his  journal  on 
Emerson's  second  visit  to  him  in  1848,  was  much 
to  the  same  effect,  and,  allowing  for  the  Carlylean 
exaggeration,  was  true.  He  wrote  that  Emerson 
differed  as  much  from  himself  "as  a  gymnosophist 
sitting  idle  on  a  flowery  bank  may  do  from  a  wearied 
worker  and  wrestler  passing  that  way  with  many  of 
his  bones  broken." 

All  men  would  choose  Emerson's  fate,  Emerson's 
history;  how  rare,  how  serene,  how  inspiring,  how 
beautiful,  how  fortunate!  But  as  between  these 
two  friends,  our  verdict  must  be  that  Carlyle  did 
the  more  unique  and  difficult,  the  more  heroic, 
piece  of  work.  Whether  the  more  valuable  and 
important  or  not,  it  is  perhaps  too  early  in  the  day 
to  say,  but  certainly  the  more  difficult  and  master- 
ful. As  an  artist,  using  the  term  in  the  largest 
sense,  as  the  master-worker  in,  and  shaper  of,  the 
Concrete,  he  is  immeasurably  Emerson's  superior. 
Emerson's  two  words  were  truth  and  beauty,  which 
lie,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  plane,  and  the  passage 
from  one  to  the  other  is  easy;  it  is  smooth  sailing. 
Carlyle's  two  words  were  truth  and  duty,  which  lie 
in  quite  different  planes,  and  the  passage  between 
which  is  steep  and  rough.      Hence  the   pain,    the 


A   SUNDAY   IN   CIIEYNE    ItOW  207 

struggle,  the  picturesque  power.  Try  to  shajx!  tlie 
actual  world  of  politics  and  human  allairs  according 
to  the  ideal  truth,  and  see  if  you  keep  your  seren- 
ity. There  is  a  Niagara  gulf  between  them  tliat 
must  be  bridged.  But  what  a  gripe  this  man  had 
upon  both  shores,  the  real  and  the  ideal !  Tlie 
quality  of  action,  of  tangible  performance,  that  lies 
in  his  works,  is  unique.  "He  has  not  so  much 
written  as  spoken,"  and  he  has  not  so  much  spoken 
as  he  has  actually  wrought.  He  experienced,  in 
each  of  his  books,  the  pain  and  the  antagonism  of 
the  man  of  action.  His  mental  mood  and  attitude 
are  the  same;  as  is  also  his  impatience  of  abstrac- 
tions, of  theories,  of  subtleties,  of  mere  words.  In- 
deed, Carlyle  was  essentially  a  man  of  action,  as  he 
himself  seemed  to  think,  driven  by  fate  into  litera- 
ture. He  is  as  real  and  as  earnest  as  Luther  or 
Cromwell,  and  his  faults  are  the  same  in  kind.  Not 
the  mere  saying  of  a  thing  satisfies  him  as  it  does 
Emerson;  you  must  do  it;  bring  order  out  of  chaos, 
make  the  dead  alive,  make  the  past  present,  in  some 
way  make  your  fine  sayings  point  to,  or  result  in, 
fact.  He  says  the  Perennial  lies  always  in  tlie 
Concrete.  Subtlety  of  intellect,  which  conducts 
you,  "not  to  new  clearness,  but  to  ever-new  abstruse- 
ness,  wheel  within  wheel,  depth  under  depth,"  has 
no  charms  for  him.  "My  erudite  friend,  the  aston- 
ishing intellect  that  occupies  itself  in  s^tlitting  hairs, 
and  not  in  twisting  some  kind  of  cordage  and  effec- 
tual drauf'ht-tackle  to  take  the  road  with,  is  not  to 
me  the  most  astonishing  of  intellects." 


208  FRESH   FIELDS 

Emerson  split  no  hairs,  but  he  twisted  very  little 
cordage  for  the  rough  draught-horses  of  this  world. 
He  tells  us  to  hitch  our  wagon  to  a  star;  and  the 
star  is  without  doubt  a  good  steed,  when  once  fairly- 
caught  and  harnessed,  but  it  takes  an  astronomer  to 
catch  it.  The  value  of  such  counsel  is  not  very 
tangible  unless  it  awakes  us  to  the  fact  that  every 
power  of  both  heaven  and  earth  is  friendly  to  a 
noble  and  courageous  activity. 

Carlyle  was  impatient  of  Emerson's  fine-spun 
sentences  and  transcendental  sleight-of-hand.  In- 
deed, from  a  literary  point  of  view,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  phases  of  the  published  correspondence 
between  these  two  notable  men  is  the  value  which 
each  unwittingly  set  upon  his  own  methods  and 
work.      Each  would  have  the  other  like  himself. 

Emerson  wants  Emersonian  epigrams  from  Car- 
lyle, and  Carlyle  wants  Carlylean  thunder  from 
Emerson.  Each  was  unconsciously  his  own  ideal. 
The  thing  which  a  man's  nature  calls  him  to  do,  — 
what  else  so  well  worth  doing  ?  Certainly  nothing 
else  to  him,  —  but  to  another  ?  How  surely  each 
one  of  us  would  make  our  fellow  over  in  our  own 
image!  Carlyle  wants  Emerson  more  practical, 
more  concrete,  more  like  himself  in  short.  "The 
vile  Pythons  of  this  Mud- world  do  verily  require  to 
have  sun- arrows  shot  into  them,  and  red-hot  pokers 
stuck  through  them,  according  to  occasion ;  "  do  this 
as  I  am  doing  it,  or  trying  to  do  it,  and  I  shall  like 
you  better.  It  is  well  to  know  that  nature  will 
make  good  compost  of  the  carcass  of  an  Oliver  Crom- 


A   SUNDAY    IN    CIIEYNE   ROW  209 

A^ell,  and  produce  a  cart-load  of  turnips  from  the 
ime;  but  it  is  better  to  appreciate  and  make  tlic 
most  of  the  live  Oliver  himself.  "A  faculty  is  in 
you  for  a  so7't  of  speech  which  is  itself  action,  an 
artistic  sort.  You  tell  us  with  piercing  emphasis 
that  man's  soul  is  great;  shoiv  us  a  great  soul  of  a 
man,  in  some  work  symbolic  of  such;  this  is  the 
seal  of  such  a  message,  and  you  will  feel  by  and  by 
that  you  are  called  to  do  this.  I  long  to  see  some 
concrete  Thing,  some  Event,  Man's  Hope,  Ameri- 
can Forest,  or  piece  of  Creation,  which  this  Emer- 
son loves  and  wonders  at,  well  Emersojiizedj  de- 
picted by  Emerson,  filled  with  the  life  of  Emerson 
and  cast  forth  from  him,  then  to  live  by  itself," 
Again:  "I  will  have  all  things  condense  themselves, 
take  shape  and  body,  if  they  are  to  have  my  sym- 
pathy; I  have  a  body  myself;  in  the  brown  leaf, 
sport  of  the  Autumn  winds,  I  find  what  mocks  all 
prophesyings,  even  Hebrew  ones."  "Alas,  it  is  so 
easy  to  screw  one's  self  up  into  high  and  even 
higher  altitudes  of  Transcendentalism,  and  see  no- 
thing under  one  but  the  everlasting  snows  of  Him- 
malayah,  the  Earth  shrinking  to  a  Planet,  and  the 
indigo  firmament  sowing  itself  with  daylight  stars ; 
easy  for  you,  for  me;  but  whither  does  it  lead?  I 
dread  always,  to  inanity  and  mere  injuring  of  the 
lungs !  "  —  with  more  of  the  same  sort. 

On  the  other  hand,  Emerson  evidently  tiros  of 
Carlyle's  long-winded  heroes.  He  would  have  him 
give  us  the  gist  of  the  matter  in  a  few  sentences. 
Cremate  your  heroes,  he  seems  to  say;  get  all  this 


210  FKESH   FIELDS 

gas  and  water  out  of  tliem,  and  give  us  the  handful 
of  lime  and  iron  of  which  they  are  composed.  He 
hungered  for  the  "central  monosyllables."  He 
praises  Cromwell  and  Frederick,  yet  says  to  his 
friend,  "that  book  will  not  come  which  I  most 
wish  to  read,  namely,  the  culled  results,  the  quin- 
tessence of  private  conviction,  a  liber  veritatis,  a 
few  sentences,  hints  of  the  final  moral  you  drew 
from  so  much  penetrating  inquest  into  past  and 
present  men." 

This  is  highly  characteristic  of  Emerson;  his  bid 
for  the  quintessence  of  things.  He  was  always 
impatient  of  creative  imaginative  works ;  would  sub- 
lunate  or  evaporate  them  in  a  hurry.  Give  him 
the  pith  of  the  matter,  the  net  result  in  the  most 
pungent  words.  It  must  still  be  picture  and  para- 
ble, but  in  a  sort  of  disembodied  or  potential  state. 
He  fed  on  the  marrow  of  Shakespeare's  sentences, 
and  apparently  cared  little  for  his  marvelous  charac- 
terizations. One  is  reminded  of  the  child's  riddle: 
Under  the  hill  there  is  a  mill,  in  the  mill  there  is 
a  chest,  in  the  chest  there  is  a  till,  in  the  till  there 
is  a  phial,  in  the  phial  there  is  a  drop  I  ^vould  not 
give  for  all  the  world.  This  drop  Emerson  would 
have.  Keep  or  omit  the  chest  and  the  mill  and 
all  that  circumlocution,  and  give  him  the  precious 
essence.  But  the  artistic  or  creative  mind  does  not 
want  things  thus  abridged,  —  does  not  want  the 
universe  reduced  to  an  epigram.  Carlyle  wants  an 
actual  flesh-and-blood  hero,  and,  what  is  more,  wants 
him  immersed  head  and  ears  in  the  actual  affairs  of 
this  world. 


A   SUNDAY    IN   CIIEYNE    ROW  211 

Those  who  seek  to  explain  Carlyle  on  the  ground 
of  his  humble  origin  shoot  wide  of  the  mark. 
"Merely  a  peasant  with  a  glorified  intellect,"  says 
a  certain  irate  female,  masquerading  as  the  "Day  «tf 
Judgment." 

It  seems  to  me  Carlyle  was  as  little  of  a  peas- 
ant as  any  man  of  his  time,  —  a  man  witliout  onc^ 
peasant  trait  or  proclivity,  a  regal  and  dominating 
man,  "looking,"  as  he  said  of  one  of  his  own  books, 
"king  and  beggar  in  the  face  with  an  indifference 
of  brotherhood  and  an  indifference  of  contempt." 
The  two  marks  of  the  peasant  are  stolidity  and 
abjectness;  he  is  dull  and  heavy,  and  he  dare  not 
say  his  soul  is  his  own.  No  man  ever  so  hustled 
and  jostled  titled  dignitaries,  and  made  them  toe 
the  mark,  as  did  Carlyle.  It  was  not  merely  that 
his  intellect  was  towering ;  it  was  also  his  character, 
his  will,  his  standard  of  manhood,  that  was  tower- 
ing. He  bowed  to  the  hero,  to  valor  and  personal 
worth,  never^  to  titles  or  conventions.  The  virtues 
and  qualities  of  his  yeoman  ancestry  were  in  him 
without  doubt;  his  power  of  application,  the  s])irit 
of  toil  that  possessed  him,  his  frugal,  self-denying 
habits,  came  from  his  family  and  race,  but  these 
are  not  peasant  traits,  but  heroic  traits.  A  certain 
coarseness  of  fibre  he  had  also,  together  with  great 
delicacy  and  sensibility,  but  these  again  he  shares 
with  all  strong  first-class  men.  You  cannot  get 
such  histories  as  Cromwell  and  Frederick  out  of 
polished  litterateurs  ;  you  must  have  a  man  of  the 
Bame  heroic  fibre,  of  the  same  inexpugnablcness  of 


212  FRESH   FIELDS 

mind  and  purpose.  Not  even  was  Emerson  ade- 
quate to  such  a  task;  he  was  fine  enough  and  high 
enough,  but  he  was  not  coarse  enough  and  broad 
enough.  The  scholarly  part  of  Carlyle's  work  is 
nearly  always  thrown  in  the  shade  by  the  manly 
part,  the  original  raciness  and  personal  intensity  of 
the  writer.  He  is  not  in  the  least  veiled  or  hidden 
by  his  literary  vestments.  He  is  rather  hampered 
by  them,  and  his  sturdy  Annandale  character  often 
breaks  through  them  in  the  most  surprising  manner. 
His  contemporaries  soon  discovered  that  if  here  was 
a  great  writer,  here  was  also  a  great  man,  come  not 
merely  to  paint  their  picture,  but  to  judge  them,  to 
weigh  them  in.  the  balance.  He  is  eminently  an 
artist,  and  yet  it  is  not  the  artistic  or  literary 
impulse  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  his  works,  but 
a  moral,  human,  emotional  impulse  and  attraction, 
—  the  impulse  of  justice,  of  veracity,  or  of  sympa- 
thy and  love. 

What  love  of  work  well  done,  what  love  of  gen- 
uine leadership,  of  devotion  to  duty,  of  mastery  of 
affairs,  in  fact  what  love  of  man  pure  and  simple, 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  "Frederick,"  lies  at  the  bot- 
tom of  "Cromwell"!  Here  is  not  the  disinterest- 
edness of  Shakespeare,  here  is  not  the  Hellenic 
flexibility  of  mind  and  scientific  impartiality  Mr. 
Arnold  demands:  here  is  espousal,  here  is  vindica- 
tion, here  is  the  moral  bias  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. But  here  also  is  reality,  here  is  the  creative 
touch,  here  are  men  and  things  made  alive  again, 
palpable  to  the  understanding  and  enticing  to  the 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       213 

imagination.      Of  all  histories  that  have  fallen  into 
my  hands,  "Frederick"  is  the  most  vital  and  real. 
If  the  current  novels  were  half  so  entertaining,  I 
fear  I  should  read  little  else.     The  portrait-painting 
is  like  that  of  Rembrandt;  the  eye  for  battles  and 
battle-fields  is  like  that  of  Napoleon,  or  Frederick 
himself;  the  sifting  of  events,   and  the  separating 
of   the   false   from   the   true,    is   that   of   the   most 
patient  and  laborious  science;  the  descriptive  pas- 
sages are  equaled  by  those  of  no  other  man;  while 
the  work  as  a  whole,  as  Emerson  says,  "is  a  Judg- 
ment Day,  for  its  moral  verdict,   on  the  men  and 
nations  and  manners  of  modern  times."     It  is  to 
be  read  for  its  honest  history;  it  is  to  be  read  for 
its  inexhaustible  wit  and  humor;  it  is  to  be  read 
for  its  poetic  fire,  for  its  felicities  of  style,  for  its 
burden  of  human  sympathy   and  effort,   its  heroic 
attractions  and  stimulating  moral  judgments.      All 
Carlyle's    histories    have    the     quick,    penetrating 
glance,  that  stroke  of  the  eye,  as  the  French  say, 
that  lays  the  matter  open  to  the  heart.      He  did 
not  write  in  the  old  way  of  a  topographical  survey 
of  the  surface:  his  "French  Fvcvolution  "  is  more 
like  a   transverse   section;   more   like  a  geologist's 
map  than  like  a  geographer's;  the  depths  are  laid 
open;  the  abyss  yawns;  the  cosmic  forces  and  fires 
stalk  forth   and  become   visible   and   real.      It   was 
this  power  to  detach  and  dislocate  things  and  pro- 
ject  them  against   the   light  of  a  fierce  and  hiii.l 
imagination  that  makes  his  pages  unicpie  and  matdi- 
less,  of  their  kind,  in  literature,      lie  may  l>c  deli- 


214  FRESH   FIELDS 

cient  in  the  historical  sense,  the  sense  of  devel- 
opment, and  of  compensation  in  history;  but  in 
vividness  of  apprehension  of  men  and  events,  and 
power  of  portraiture,  he  is  undoubtedly  without  a 
rival.  "Those  devouring  eyes  and  that  portraying 
hand,"  Emerson  says. 

Those  who  contract  their  view  of  Carlyle  till  they 
see  only  his  faults  do  a  very  unwise  thing.  Nearly 
all  his  great  traits  have  their  shadows.  His  power 
of  characterization  sometimes  breaks  away  into  cari- 
cature; his  command  of  the  picturesque  leads  him 
into  the  grotesque;  his  eloquent  denunciation  at 
times  becomes  vituperation;  his  marvelous  power 
to  name  things  degenerates  into  outrageous  nick- 
naming; his  streaming  humor,  which,  as  Emerson 
said,  floats  every  object  he  looks  upon,  is  not  free 
from  streaks  of  the  most  crabbed,  hide- bound  ill- 
humor.  Nearly  every  page  has  a  fringe  of  these 
things,  and  sometimes  a  pretty  broad  one,  but  they 
are  by  no  means  the  main  matter,  and  often  lend  an 
additional  interest.  The  great  personages,  the  great 
events,  are  never  caricatured,  though  painted  with 
a  bold,  free  hand,  but  there  is  in  the  border  of  the 
picture  all  manner  of  impish  and  grotesque  strokes. 
In  "Frederick"  there  is  a  whole  series  of  secondary 
men  and  incidents  that  are  touched  off  with  the  hand 
of  a  master  caricaturist.  Some  peculiarity  of  feature 
or  manner  is  seized  upon,  magnified,  and  made  prom- 
inent on  all  occasions.  We  are  never  suffered  to  for- 
get George  the  Second's  fish  eyes  and  gartered  leg; 
nor  the  lean  May-pole  mistress  of  George  the  First; 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  KOW       215 

nor  the  Czarina's  big  fat  cheek;  nor  poor  Bruhl, 
"vainest  of  human  clothes-horses,"  with  his  twelve 
tailors  and  his  three  hundred  and  sixty -five  suits  of 
clothes;  nor  Augustus,  "the  dilapidated  strong," 
with  his  three  hundred  and  tifty-four  bastards.  Nor 
can  any  reader  of  that  work  ever  forget  "Jenkins' 
Ear,"  — the  poor  fraction  of  an  ear  of  an  English 
sailor  snipped  ofi'  by  the  Spaniards,  and  here  made 
to  stand  for  a  whole  series  of  historical  events.  In- 
deed, this  severed  ear  looms  up  till  it  becomes  like 
a  sign  in  the  zodiac  of  those  times.  His  portrait  of 
the  French  army,  which  he  calls  the  Dauphiness,  is 
unforgetable,  and  is  in  the  best  style  of  his  histor- 
ical caricature.  It  makes  its  exit  over  the  Rhine 
before  Duke  Ferdinand,  "much  in  rags,  much  in 
disorder,  in  terror,  and  here  and  there  almost  in 
despair,  winging  their  way  like  clouds  of  draggled 
poultry  caught  by  a  mastiff  in  the  corn.  Across 
Weser,  across  Ems,  finally  across  the  Kliine  itself, 
every  feather  of  them,  — their  long-drawn  cackle, 
of  a  shrieky  type,  filling  all  nature  in  those  months." 
A  good  sample  of  the  grotesque  in  Carlyle,  pushed 
to  the  last  limit,  and  perhaps  a  little  beyond,  is  in 
this  picture  of  the  Czarina  of  Russia,  stirred  up  to 
declare  war  against  Frederick  by  his  Austrian  ene- 
mies: "Bombarded  with  cunningly-devised  fabri- 
cations, every  wmd  freighted  for  her  with  phantas- 
mal rumors,  no  ray  of  direct  daylight  visiting  the 
poor  Sovereign  Woman;  who  is  lazy,  not  malig- 
nant, if  she  could  avoid  it ;  mainly  a  mass  of  esuri- 
ent oil,  with  alkali  on  the  back  of  alkali  poured  in, 


216  FRESH   FIELDS 

at  this  rate  for  ten  years  past,  till,  by  pouring  and 
by  stirring,  they  get  her  to  the  state  of  socqo  and 
froth." 

Carlyle  had  a  narrow  escape  from  being  the  most 
formidable  blackguard  the  world  had  ever  seen; 
was,  indeed,  in  certain  moods,  a  kind  of  divine 
blackguard,  —  a  purged  and  pious  Rabelais,  who 
could  bespatter  the  devil  with  more  telling  epithets 
than  any  other  man  who  ever  lived.  What  a 
tongue,  what  a  vocabulary !  He  fairly  oxidizes, 
burns  up,  the  object  of  his  opprobrium,  in  the 
stream  of  caustic  epithets  he  turns  upon  it.  He 
had  a  low  opinion  of  the  contemporaries  of  Freder- 
ick and  Voltaire:  they  were  "mere  ephemera;  con- 
temporary eaters,  scramblers  for  provender,  talkers 
of  acceptable  hearsay ;  and  related  merely  to  the 
butteries  and  wiggeries  of  their  time,  and  not 
related  to  the  Perennialities  at  all,  as  these  two 
were."  He  did  not  have  to  go  very  far  from  home 
for  some  of  the  lineaments  of  Voltaire's  portrait: 
"He  had,  if  no  big  gloomy  devil  in  him  among  the 
bright  angels  that  were  there,  a  multitude  of  raven- 
ing, tumultuary  imps,  or  little  devils,  very  ill- 
chained,  and  was  lodged,  he  and  his  restless  little 
devils,  in  a  skin  far  too  thin  for  him  and  them ! " 

Of  Frederick's  cynicism  he  says  there  was  "al- 
ways a  kind  of  vinegar  cleanness  in  it,  except  in 
theory."  Equally  original  and  felicitous  is  the 
"  albuminous  simplicity  "  which  he  ascribes  to  the 
Welfs.  Newspaper  men  have  never  forgiven  him 
for  calling  them  the  "gazetteer  owls  of  Minerva;" 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       217 

and  our  Catholic  brethren  can  hardly  relish  his  ref- 
erence to  the  "consolations"  the  nuns  deal  out  to 
the  sick  as  "poisoned  gingerbread."  In  "Freder- 
ick" one  comes  upon  such  phrases  as  "milk-faced," 
"bead-roll  histories,"  "heavy  pipe-clay  natures,"  a 
"stiif- jointed,  algebraic  kind  of  piety,"  etc. 

Those  who  persist  in  trying  Carlyle  as  a  })hiloso- 
pher  and  man  of  ideas  miss  his  purport.  He  had 
no  philosophy,  and  laid  claim  to  none,  except  what 
he  got  from  the  German  metaphysicians,  —  views 
which  crop  out  here  and  there  in  "Sartor."  He 
was  a  preacher  of  righteousness  to  his  generation, 
and  a  rebuker  of  its  shams  and  irreverences,  and 
as  such  he  cut  deep,  cut  to  the  bone,  and  to  the 
marrow  of  the  bone.  That  piercing,  agonized,  pro- 
phetic, yet  withal  melodious  and  winsome  voice, 
how  it  rises  through  and  above  the  multitudinous 
hum  and  clatter  of  contemporary  voices  in  England, 
and  alone  falls  upon  the  ear  as  from  out  the  primal 
depths  of  moral  conviction  and  power!  He  is  the 
last  man  in  the  world  to  be  reduced  to  a  system  or 
tried  by  logical  tests.  You  might  as  well  try  to 
bind  the  sea  with  chains.  His  appeal  is  to  the 
intuitions,  the  imagination,  the  moral  sense.  His 
power  of  mental  abstraction  was  not  great;  he  could 
not  deal  in  abstract  ideas.  When  he  attempted  to 
state  his  philosophy,  as  in  the  fragment  called 
"Spiritual  Optics,"  which  Froude  gives,  he  is  far 
from  satisfactory.  His  mathematical  proficiency 
seemed  to  avail  him  but  little  in  the  region  of  pure 
ideality.      His  mind   is  precipitated  at   once   upon 


218  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  concrete,  upon  actual  persons  and  events.  This 
makes  him  the  artist  he  is,  as  distinguished  from 
the  mystic  and  philosopher,  and  is  perhaps  the  basis 
of  Emerson's  remark,  that  there  is  "more  character 
than  intellect  in  every  sentence ; "  that  is,  more 
motive,  more  will-power,  more  stress  of  conscience, 
more  that  appeals  to  one  as  a  living  personal  iden- 
tity, wrestling  with  facts  and  events,  than  there  is 
that  appeals  to  him  as  a  contemplative  philosopher. 
Carlyle  owed  everything  to  his  power  of  will  and 
to  his  unflinching  adherence  to  principle.  He  was 
in  no  sense  a  lucky  man,  had  no  good  fortune,  was 
borne  by  no  current,  was  favored  and  helj^ed  by  no 
circumstance  whatever.  His  life  from  the  first  was 
a  steady  pull  against  both  wind  and  tide.  He  con- 
fronted all  the  cherished  thoughts,  beliefs,  tenden- 
cies, of  his  time;  he  spurned  and  insulted  his  age 
and  country.  No  man  ever  before  poured  out  such 
withering  scorn  upon  his  contemporaries.  Many  of 
his  political  tracts  are  as  blasting  as  the  Satires  of 
Juvenal.  The  opinions  and  practices  of  his  times, 
in  politics,  religion,  and  literature,  were  as  a  stubbly, 
brambly  field,  to  which  he  would  fain  apply  the 
match  and  clean  the  ground  for  a  nobler  crop.  He 
would  purge  and  fertilize  the  soil  by  fire.  His 
attitude  was  one  of  warning  and  rebuking.  He  was 
refused  every  public  place  he  ever  aspired  to,  — 
every  college  and  editorial  chair.  Every  man's 
hand  was  against  him.  He  was  hated  by  the 
Whigs  and  feared  by  the  Tories.  He  was  poor, 
proud,   uncompromising,    sarcastic;  he  was  morose, 


A   SUNDAY   IN    CIIEYNE    ROW  210 

dyspeptic,  despondent,  compassed  about  Ly  dragons 
and  all  manner  of  evil  menacing  forms ;  in  fact,  the 
odds  were  fearfully  against  him,  and  yet  he  suc- 
ceeded, and  succeeded  on  his  own  terms.  He  fairly 
conquered  the  world;  yes,  and  the  flesh  and  the 
devil.  But  it  was  one  incessant,  heroic  struf'<de 
and  wrestle  from  the  first.  All  through  his  youth 
and  his  early  manhood  he  was  nerving  himself  for 
the  conflict.  Whenever  he  took  counsel  with  him- 
self it  was  to  give  his  courage  a  new  fillip.  In  his 
letters  to  his  people,  in  his  private  journal,  in  all  his 
meditations,  he  never  loses  the  opportunity  to  take 
a  new  hitch  upon  his  resolution,  to  screw  his  pur- 
pose up  tighter.  Not  a  moment's  relaxation,  hut 
ceaseless  vigilance  and  "desperate  hope."  In  1830 
lie  says  in  his  journal:  "Oh,  I  care  not  for  poverty, 
little  even  for  disgrace,  nothing  at  all  for  want  of 
renown.  But  the  horrible  feeling  is  when  I  cease 
my  own  struggle,  lose  the  consciousness  of  my  own 
strength,  and  become  positively  quite  worldly  and 
wicked."  A  year  later  he  wrote:  "To  it,  tliou 
Taugenkhts !  Gird  thyself!  stir!  struggle!  for- 
ward! forward!  Thou  art  bundled  up  here  and 
tied  as  in  a  sack.  On,  then,  as  in  a  sack  race ; 
runnin(%  not  racfing!"  Carlvle  made  no  terms  witli 
himself  nor  with  others.  He  wouUl  not  agree  to 
keep  the  peace;  he  would  be  the  voice  of  absolute 
conscience,  of  absolute  justice,  come  what  come 
might.  "Woe  to  them  that  are  at  ease  in  Zion," 
he  once  said  to  John  Sterling.  The  stern,  uncom- 
promising front  which  he  first  turned  to  the  M-(»rhl 


220  FRESH   FIELDS 

he  never  relaxed  for  a  moment.  He  had  his  way 
with  mankind  at  all  times;  or  rather  conscience 
had  its  way  with  him  at  all  times  in  his  relations 
with  mankind.  He  made  no  selfish  demands,  but 
ideal  demands.  Jeffries,  seeing  his  attitude  and 
his  earnestness  in  it,  despaired  of  him;  he  looked 
upon  him  as  a  man  butting  his  head  against  a  stone 
wall;  he  never  dreamed  that  the  wall  would  give 
way  before  the  head  did.  It  was  not  mere  obsti- 
nacy ;  it  was  not  the  pride  of  opinion :  it  was  the 
thunders  of  conscience,  the  awful  voice  of  Sinai, 
within  him;  he  dared  not  do  otherwise. 

A  selfish  or  self-seeking  man  Carlyle  in  no  sense 
was,  though  it  has  so  often  been  charged  upon  him. 
He  was  the  victim  of  his  own  genius;  and  he  made 
others  its  victims,  not  of  his  selfishness.  This 
genius,  no  doubt,  came  nearer  the  demon  of  Socrates 
than  that  of  any  modern  man.  He  is  under  its 
lash  and  tyranny  from  first  to  last.  But  the  watch- 
word of  his  life  was  ^^ Entsagen,^^  renunciation,  self- 
denial,  which  he  learned  from  Goethe.  His  demon 
did  not  possess  him  lightly,  but  dominated  and 
drove  him. 

One  would  as  soon  accuse  St.  Simeon  Stylites, 
thirty  years  at  the  top  of  his  penitential  pillar,  of 
selfishness.  Seeking  his  own  ends,  following  his 
own  demon,  St.  Simeon  certainly  was;  but  seeking 
his  ease  or  pleasure,  or  animated  by  any  unworthy, 
ignoble  purpose,  he  certainly  was  not.  No  more 
was  Carlyle,  each  one  of  whose  books  was  a  sort  of 
pillar  of  penitence  or  martydom  atop  of  which  he 


A   SUNDAY    IN   CIIEYNE   ROW  221 

wrought  and  suffered,  shut  away  from  the  world, 
renouncing  its  pleasures  and  prizes,  wrapped  in 
deepest  gloom  and  misery,  and  wrestling  with  all 
manner  of  real  and  imaginary  demons  and  hin- 
drances. During  his  last  great  work,  —  the  thir- 
teen years  spent  in  his  study  at  the  top  of  his 
house,  writing  the  history  of  Frederick,  —  this  iso- 
lation, this  incessant  toil  and  penitential  gloom, 
were  such  as  only  religious  devotees  have  volun- 
tarily imposed  upon  themselves. 

If  Carlyle  was  "ill  to  live  with,"  as  his  mother 
said,  it  was  not  because  he  was  selfish.  He  was 
a  man,  to  borrow  one  of  Emerson's  early  phrases, 
"inflamed  to  a  fury  of  personality."  He  must  of 
necessity  assert  himself;  he  is  shot  with  great  velo- 
city; he  is  keyed  to  an  extraordinary  pitch;  and  it 
was  this,  this  raging  fever  of  individuality,  if  any 
namable  trait  or  quality,  rather  than  anything  lower 
in  the  scale,  that  often  made  him  an  uncomfortable 
companion  and  neighbor. 

And  it  may  be  said  here  that  his  wife  had  the 
same  complaint,  and  had  it  bad,  the  feminine  form 
of  it,  and  without  the  vent  and  assuagement  of  it 
that  her  husband  found  in  literature.  Little  won- 
der that  between  two  such  persons,  living  childless 
together  for  forty  years,  each  assiduously  cultivat- 
ing their  sensibilities  and  idiosyncrasies,  there 
should  have  been  more  or  less  frictions.  Both 
sarcastic,  quick-witted,  plain-spoken,  sleepless,  ad- 
dicted to  morphia  and  blue-pills,  nerves  all  on  the 
outside;  the  wife  without  any  occupation  adequate 


222  FRESH   FIELDS 

to  her  genius,  the  husband  toiling  like  Hercules  at 
his  tasks  and  groaning  much  louder;  both  flouting 
at  happiness;  both  magnifying  the  petty  ills  of  life 
into  harrowing  tragedies ;  both  gifted  with  "  preter- 
natural intensity  of  sensation ; ''  Mrs.  C.  nearly 
killed  by  the  sting  of  a  wasp;  Mr.  C.  driven  nearly 
distracted  by  the  crowing  of  a  cock  or  the  baying 
of  a  dog;  the  wife  hot-tempered,  the  husband  atra- 
bilarious;  one  caustic,  the  other  arrogant;  marrying 
from  admiration  rather  than  from  love  —  could  one 
reasonably  predict,  beforehand,  a  very  high  state 
of  domestic  felicity  for  such  a  couple?  and  would 
it  be  just  to  lay  the  blame  all  on  the  husband,  as 
has  generally  been  done  in  this  case?  Man  and 
wife  were  too  much  alike;  the  marriage  was  in  no 
sense  a  union  of  opposites;  at  no  point  did  the  two 
sufficiently  offset  and  complement  each  other;  hence, 
though  deeply  devoted,  they  never  seemed  to  find 
the  repose  and  the  soothing  acquiescence  in  the 
society  of  one  another  that  marriage  should  bring. 
They  both  had  the  great  virtues,  —  nobleness,  gen- 
erosity, courage,  deep  kindliness,  etc. ,  —  but  nei- 
ther of  them  had  the  small  virtues.  Both  gave 
way  under  small  annoyances,  paltry  cares,  petty 
interruptions,  —  bugs,  cocks,  donkeys,  street  noises, 
etc.  To  great  emergencies,  to  great  occasions,  they 
could  oppose  great  qualities;  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  that,  but  the  ordinary  every- day  hindrances  and 
petty  burdens  of  life  fretted  their  spirits  into  tat- 
ters. Mrs.  C.  used  frequently  to  return  from  her 
trips  to  the  country  with  her  "mind  all   churned 


A   SUNDAY   IX   CIIEYNE   ROW  223 

into  froth, "  —  no  butter  of  sweet  thought  or  sweet 
cantent  at  all.  Yet  Carlyle  could  say  of  her,  "Not 
a  bad  little  dame  at  all.  Slie  and  I  did  aye  very 
weel  together;  and  'tweel,  it  was  not  every  one 
that  could  have  done  with  her,"  which  was  doubt- 
less the  exact  truth.  Froude  also  speaks  from  per- 
sonal knowledge  when  he  says:  "His  was  the  soft 
heart  and  hers  the  stern  one." 

We  are  now  close  on  to  the  cardinal  fact  of  Car- 
lyle's  life  and  teachings,  namely,  the  urgency  of 
his  quest  for  heroes  and  heroic  qualities.  This 
is  the  master  key  to  him;  the  main  stress  of  his 
preaching  and  writing  is  here.  He  is  the  medium 
and  exemplar  of  the  value  of  personal  force  and 
prowess,  and  he  projected  this  thought  into  current 
literature  and  politics,  with  the  emphasis  of  gun- 
powder and  torpedoes.  He  had  a  vehement  and 
overweening  conceit  in  man.  A  sort  of  anthropo- 
morphic greed  and  hunger  possessed  him  always, 
an  insatiable  craving  for  strong,  picturesque  charac- 
ters, and  for  contact  and  conflict  with  them.  This 
was  his  ruling  passion  (and  it  amounted  to  a  pas- 
sion) all  his  days.  He  fed  his  soul  on  heroes  and 
heroic  qualities,  and  all  his  literary  exploits  were 
a  search  for  these  things.  AVhere  he  found  them 
not,  where  he  did  not  come  upon  some  trace  of 
them  in  books,  in  society,  in  politics,  he  saw  only 
barrenness  and  futility.  He  was  an  idealist  who 
was  inhospitable  to  ideas;  he  must  have  a  man,  the 
flavor  and  stimulus  of  ample  concrete  personalities. 
"In  the  country,"  he  said,  writing  to   his  brothei' 


224  FRESH   FIELDS 

in  1821,  "I  am  like  an  alien,  a  stranger  and  pilgrim 
from  a  far-distant  land."  His  faculties  were  "up 
in  mutiny,  and  slaying  one  another  for  lack  of  fair 
enemies."  He  must  to  the  city,  to  Edinburgh,  and 
finally  to  London,  where,  thirteen  years  later,  we 
find  his  craving  as  acute  as  ever.  "Oct.  1st.  This 
morning  think  of  the  old  primitive  Edinburgh 
scheme  of  engineership ;  almost  meditate  for  a 
moment  resuming  it  2/£t !  It  were  a  method  of 
gaining  bread,  of  getting  into  contact  with  men, 
my  two  grand  wants  and  prayers." 

Nothing  but  man,  but  heroes,  touched  him, 
moved  him,  satisfied  him.  He  stands  for  heroes 
and  hero-worship,  and  for  that  alone.  Bring  him 
the  most  plausible  theory,  the  most  magnanimous 
idea  in  the  world,  and  he  is  cold,  indifferent,  or 
openly  insulting;  but  bring  him  a  brave,  strong 
man,  or  the  reminiscence  of  any  noble  personal 
trait,  —  sacrifice,  obedience,  reverence,  —  and  every 
faculty  within  him  stirs  and  responds.  Dreamers 
and  enthusiasts,  with  their  schemes  for  the  millen- 
nium, rushed  to  him  for  aid  and  comfort,  and 
usually  had  the  door  slammed  in  their  faces.  They 
forgot  it  was  a  man  he  had  advertised  for,  and  not 
an  idea.  Indeed,  if  you  had  the  blow-fly  of  any 
popular  ism  or  reform  buzzing  in  your  bonnet, 
ISTo.  5  Cheyne  Kow  was  the  house  above  all  others 
to  be  avoided;  little  chance  of  inoculating  such  a 
mind  as  Carlyle's  Math  your  notions,  —  of  hlowing 
a  toiling  and  sweating  hero  at  his  work.  But  wel- 
come to   any  man  with  real  work  to  do  and   the 


A   SUNDAY   IN    CHEYNE   ROW  225 

courage  to  do  it;  welcome  to  any  man  who  stood 
for  any  real,  tangible  thing  in  his  own  right.  ^'In 
God's  name,  what  art  thou?  Not  Nothing,  sayest 
thou!  Then,  How  much  and  what?  This  is  the 
thing  I  would  know,  and  even  must  soon  know, 
such  a  pass  am  I  come  to!  "     ("Past  and  Present.") 

Caroline  Fox,  in  her  Memoirs,  tells  how,  in 
1842,  Carlyle's  sympathies  were  enlisted  in  behalf 
of  a  Cornish  miner  who  had  kept  his  place  in  the 
bottom  of  a  shaft,  above  a  blast  the  fuse  of  which 
had  been  prematurely  lighted,  and  allowed  his  com- 
rades to  be  hauled  up  when  only  one  could  escape 
at  a  time.  He  inquired  out  the  hero,  who,  as  by 
miracle,  had  survived  the  explosion,  and  set  on 
foot  an  enterprise  to  raise  funds  for  the  bettering 
of  his  condition.  In  a  letter  to  Sterling,  he  said 
there  was  help  and  profit  in  knowing  that  there 
was  such  a  true  and  brave  workman  living,  and 
working  with  him  on  the  earth  at  that  time.  "  Tell 
all  the  people,"  he  said,  "that  a  man  of  this  kind 
ought  to  be  hatched,  —  that  it  were  shameful  to  eat 
him  as  a  breakfast  egg !  " 

All  Carlyle's  sins  of  omission  and  commission 
grew  out  of  this  terrible  predilection  for  the  indi- 
vidual hero :  this  bent  or  inclination  determined  the 
whole  water-shed,  so  to  speak,  of  his  mind;  every 
rill  and  torrent  swept  swiftly  and  noisily  in  this 
one  direction.  It  is  the  tragedy  in  Burns' s  life  that 
attracts  him;  the  morose  heroism  in  Johnson's,  the 
copious  manliness  in  Scott's,  the  lordly  and  regal 
quality  in  Goethe.      Emerson  praised  Plato  to  him; 


226  FRESH    FIELDS 

but  the  endless  dialectical  hair-splitting  of  the  Greek 
philosopher,  —  "  how  does  all  this  concern  me  at 
all  1 "  he  said.  But  when  he  discovered  that  Plato 
hated  the  Athenian  democracy  most  cordially,  and 
poured  out  his  scorn  upon  it,  he  thought  much  bet- 
ter of  him.  History  swiftly  resolves  itself  into 
biography  to  him;  the  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
ebbed  and  flowed  in  obedience  to  the  few  potent 
wills.  We  do  not  find  him  exploiting  or  elucidating 
ideas  and  principles,  but  moral  qualities,  —  always 
on  the  scent,  on  the  search  of  the  heroic. 

He  raises  aloft  the  standard  of  the  individual 
will,  the  supremacy  of  man  over  events.  He  sees 
the  reign  of  laAv;  none  see  it  clearer.  "Eternal 
Law  is  silently  present  everywhere  and  everywhen. 
By  Law  the  Planets  gyrate  in  their  orbits;  by 
some  approach  to  Law  the  street-cabs  ply  in  their 
thoroughfares."  But  law  is  still  personal  will  with 
him,  the  will  of  God.  He  can  see  nothing  but 
individuality,  but  conscious  will  and  force,  in  the 
universe.  He  believed  in  a  personal  God.  He 
had  an  inward  ground  of  assurance  of  it  in  his  own 
intense  personality  and  vivid  apprehension  of  per- 
sonal force  and  genius.  He  seems  to  have  believed 
in  a  personal  devil.  At  least  he  abuses  "Auld 
Nickie-Ben  "  as  one  would  hardly  think  of  abusing 
an  abstraction.  However  impractical  we  may  re- 
gard Carlyle,  he  was  entirely  occupied  with  practi- 
cal questions;  an  idealist  turned  loose,  in  the  actual 
affairs  of  this  world,  and  intent  only  on  bettering 
them.     That  which  so  drew  reformers  and  all  ardent 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       227 

ideal  natures  to  him  was  not  the  character  of  his 
conviction,  but  the  torrid  impetuosity  of  his  belief. 
He  had  the  earnestness  of  fanaticism,  the  earnest- 
ness of  rebellion;  the  earnestness  of  the  Long  Par- 
liament and  the  National  Convention,  —  the  only 
two  parliaments  he  praises.  He  did  not  merely  see 
the  truth  and  placidly  state  it,  standing  aloof  and 
apart  from  it;  but,  as  soon  as  his  intellect  had  con- 
ceived a  thing  as  true,  every  current  of  his  being 
set  swiftly  in  that  direction;  it  was  an  outlet  at 
once  for  his  whole  pent-up  energies,  and  there  was 
a  flood  and  sometimes  an  inundation  of  Carlylean 
wrath  and  power.  Coming  from  Goethe,  with  his 
marvelous  insight  and  cool,  uncommitted  moral 
nature,  to  the  great  Scotchman,  is  like  coming  from 
dress  parade  to  a  battle,  from  Melancthon  to  Luther. 
It  would  be  far  from  the  truth  to  say  that  Goethe 
was  not  in  earnest:  he  was  all  eyes,  all  vision;  he 
saw  everything,  but  saw  it  for  his  own  ends  and 
behoof,  for  contemplation  and  enjoyment.  In  Car- 
lyle  the  vision  is  productive  of  pain  and  suffering, 
because  his  moral  nature  sympathizes  so  instantly 
and  thoroughly  with  his  intellectual;  it  is  a  call 
to  battle,  and  every  faculty  is  enlisted.  It  was 
this  that  made  Carlyle  akin  to  the  reformers  and 
the  fanatics,  and  led  them  to  expect  more  of  him 
than  they  got.  The  artist  element  in  him,  and  his 
vital  hold  upon  the  central  truths  of  character  and 
personal  force,  saved  him  from  any  such  fate  as 
overtook  his  friend  Irving. 

Out  of  Carlyle 's  fierce  and  rampant  individualism 


228  FRESH    FIELDS 

come  his  grasp  of  character  and  his  power  of  human 
portraiture.  It  is,  perhaps,  not  too  much  to  say, 
that  in  all  literature  there  is  not  another  such  a 
master  portrait- painter,  such  a  limner  and  inter- 
preter of  historical  figures  and  physiognomies.  That 
power  of  the  old  artists  to  paint  or  to  carve  a  man, 
to  hody  him  forth,  almost  re-create  him,  so  rare  in 
the  moderns,  Carlyle  had  in  a  preeminent  degree. 
As  an  artist  it  is  his  distinguishing  gift,  and  puts 
him  on  a  jDar  with  E-embrandt,  Angelo,  Reynolds, 
and  with  the  antique  masters  of  sculpture.  He 
could  put  his  finger  upon  the  weak  point  and  upon 
the  strong  point  of  a  man  as  unerringly  as  fate. 
He  knew  a  man  as  a  jockey  knows  a  horse.  His 
pictures  of  Johnson,  of  Bos  well,  of  Voltaire,  of 
Mirabeau,  what  masterpieces !  His  portrait  of  Cole- 
ridge will  doubtless  survive  all  others,  inadequate 
as  it  is  in  many  ways;  one  fears,  also  that  poor 
Lamb  has  been  stamped  to  last.  None  of  Carlyle 's 
characterizations  have  excited  more  ill-feeling  than 
this  same  one  of  Lamb.  But  it  was  plain  from  the 
outset  that  Carlyle  could  not  like  such  a  verbal 
acrobat  as  Lamb.  He  doubtless  had  him  or  his 
kind  in  view  when  he  wrote  this  passage  in  "Past 
and  Present:''  "His  poor  fraction  of  sense  has  to 
be  perked  into  some  epigrammatic  shape,  that  it  may 
prick  into  me,  —  perhaps  (this  is  the  commonest) 
to  be  topsy-turvied,  left  standing  on  its  head,  that 
I  may  remember  it  the  better !  Such  grinning  in- 
sanity is  very  sad  to  the  soul  of  man.  Human 
faces   should    not   grin    on    one    like   masks;   they 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       229 

should  look  on  one  like  faces !  I  love  honest  laugh- 
ter as  I  do  sunlight,  but  not  dishonest ;  most  kinds 
of  dancing,  too,  but  the  St.  Vitus  kind,  not  at 
all ! " 

If  Carlyle  had  taken  to  the  brush  instead  of  to 
the  pen,  he  would  probably  have  left  a  gallery  of 
portraits  such  as  this  century  has  not  seen.  In  his 
letters,  journals,  reminiscences,  etc.,  for  him  to 
mention  a  man  is  to  describe  his  face,  and  with 
what  graphic  pen-and-ink  sketches  they  abound! 
Let  me  extract  a  few  of  them.  Here  is  Rousseau's 
face,  from  "Heroes  and  Hero  Worship:  "  "A  high 
but  narrow-contracted  intensity  in  it;  bony  brows; 
deep,  straight-set  eyes,  in  which  there  is  something 
bewildered  -  looking,  —  bewildered,  peering  with 
lynx-eagerness;  a  face  full  of  misery,  even  ignoble 
misery,  and  also  of  an  antagonism  against  that; 
something  mean,  plebeian,  there,  redeemed  only  by 
intensity ;  the  face  of  what  is  called  a  fanatic,  — 
a  sadly  contracted  hero !  "  Here  a  glimpse  of  Dan- 
ton:  "Through  whose  black  brows  and  rude,  flat- 
tened face  there  looks  a  waste  energy  as  of  Her- 
cules." Camille  Desmoulins:  "With  the  face  of 
dingy  blackguardism,  wondrously  irradiated  with 
genius,  as  if  a  naphtha  lamp  burned  in  it. "  Through 
Mirabeau's  "shaggy,  beetle-brows,  and  rough-hewn, 
seamed,  carbuncled  face  there  look  natural  ugliness, 
smallpox,  incontinence,  bankruptcy,  and  burning 
fire  of  genius;  like  comet  fire,  glaring  fuliginous 
through  murkiest  confusions." 

On  first  meeting  with  John  Stuart  Mill  he  de- 


230  FRESH   FIELDS 

scribes  him  to  his  wife  as  "a  slender,  rather  tall, 
and  elegant  youth,  with  small,  clear,  Roman-nosed 
face,  two  small,  earnestly  smiling  eyes;  modest, 
remarkably  gifted  with  precision  of  utterance;  en- 
thusiastic, yet  lucid,  calm;  not  a  great,  yet  dis- 
tinctly a  gifted  and  amiable  youth. " 

A  London  editor,  whom  he  met  about  the  same 
time,  he  describes  as  "a  tall,  loose,  lank-haired, 
wrinkly,  wintry,  vehement-looking  flail  of  a  man." 
He  goes  into  the  House  of  Commons  on  one  of  his 
early  visits  to  London:  "Althorp  spoke,  a  thick, 
large,  broad- whiskered,  farmer-looking  man;  Hume 
also,  a  powdered,  clean,  burly  fellow;  and  Weth- 
erell,  a  beetle-browed,  sagacious,  quizzical  old  gen- 
tleman; then  Davies,  a  Eoman-nosed  dandy,"  etc. 
He  must  touch  off  the  portrait  of  every  man  he 
sees.  De  Quincey  "is  one  of  the  smallest  men  you 
ever  in  your  life  beheld;  but  with  a  most  gentle 
and  sensible  face,  only  that  the  teeth  are  destroyed 
by  opium,  and  the  little  bit  of  an  under  lip  projects 
like  a  shelf."  Leigh  Hunt:  "Dark  complexion  (a 
trace  of  the  African,  I  believe);  copious,  clean, 
strong  black  hair,  beautifully  shaped  head,  fine, 
beaming,  serious  hazel  eyes;  seriousness  and  intel- 
lect the  main  expression  of  the  face  (to  our  surprise 
at  first)." 

Here  is  his  sketch  of  Tennyson :  "  A  fine,  large- 
featured,  dim-eyed,  bronze-colored,  shaggy-headed 
man  is  Alfred;  dusty,  smoky,  free  and  easy,  who 
swings  outwardly  and  inwardly  with  great  compos- 
ure in  an  inarticulate  element  of  tranquil  chaos  and 


A    SUNDAY   IN    CIIEYNE   ROW.  231 

tobacco  smoke.  Great  now  and  then  when  he  does 
emerge,  —  a  most  restful,  brotherly,  solid -hearted 
man. " 

Here  we  have  Dickens  in  1840:  "Clear  blue 
intelligent  eyes ;  eyebrows  that  he  arches  amazingly ; 
large,  protrusive,  rather  loose  mouth;  a  face  of 
most  extreme  inohiUtij,  which  he  shuttles  about  — 
eyebrows,  eyes,  mouth,  and  all  —  in  a  very  singular 
manner  while  speaking.  Surmount  this  with  a 
loose  coil  of  common-colored  hair,  and  set  it  on  a 
small  compact  figure,  very  small,  and  dressed  a  la 
D'Orsay  rather  than  well,  — this  is  Pickwick." 

Here  is  a  glimpse  of  Grote,  the  historian  of 
Greece:  "A  man  with  straight  upper  lip,  large 
chin,  and  open  mouth  (spout  mouth) ;  for  the  rest, 
a  tall  man,  with  dull,  thoughtful  brow  and  lank, 
disheveled  hair,  greatly  the  look  of  a  prosperous 
Dissenting  minister." 

In  telling  Emerson  whom  he  shall  see  in  London, 
he  says:  "Southey's  complexion  is  still  healthy 
mahogany  brown,  with  a  fleece  of  white  hair,  and 
eyes  that  seem  running  at  full  gallop;  old  Rogers, 
with  his  pale  head,  white,  bare,  and  cold  as  snow, 
with  those  large  blue  eyes,  cruel,  sorrowful,  and 
that  sardonic  shelf  chin." 

In  another  letter  he  draws  this  portrait  of  Web- 
ster: "As  a  logic-fencer,  advocate,  or  parliamen- 
tary Hercules,  one  would  incline  to  back  him,  at 
first  sight,  against  all  the  extant  world.  The 
tanned  complexion;  that  amorphous  crag-like  face; 
the  dull  black  eyes  under  their  precipice  of  brows, 


232  FRESH   FIELDS 

like  dull  anthracite  furnaces,  needing  only  to  be 
hloivn;  the  mastiff-mouth  accurately  closed:  I  have 
not  traced  as  much  of  silent  Berserker  rage,  that 
I  remember  of,  in  any  other  man."  In  writing  his- 
histories  Carlyle  valued,  above  almost  anything 
else,  a  good  portrait  of  his  hero,  and  searched  far 
and  wide  for  such.  He  roamed  through  endless 
jDicture-galleries  in  Germany  searching  for  a  gen- 
uine portrait  of  Frederick  the  Great,  and  at  last, 
chiefly  by  good  luck,  hit  upon  the  thing  he  was  in 
quest  of.  "If  one  would  buy  an  indisputably  au- 
thentic old  shoe  of  William  Wallace  for  hundreds 
of  pounds,  and  run  to  look  at  it  from  all  ends  of 
Scotland,  what  Avould  one  give  for  an  authentic 
visible  shadow^  of  his  face,  could  such,  by  art  natu- 
ral or  art  magic,  now  be  had!"  "Often  I  have 
found  a  Portrait  superior  in  real  instruction  to  half 
a  dozen  written  '  Biographies, '  as  Biographies  are 
Avi'itten;  or,  rather,  let  me  say,  I  have  found  that 
the  Portrait  was  a  small  lighted  candle  by  which 
the  Biographies  could  for  the  first  time  be  read, 
and  some  human  interpretation  be  made  of  them." 

II 

Carlyle  stands  at  all  times,  at  all  places,  for  the 
hero,  for  power  of  will,  authority  of  character,  ade- 
quacy, and  obligation  of  personal  force.  He  offsets 
completely,  and  with  the  emphasis  of  a  clap  of 
thunder,  the  modern  leveling  impersonal  tendencies, 
the  "manifest  destinies,"  the  blind  mass  move- 
ments,  the  merging  of  the   one  in  the  many,   the 


A   SUNDAY   IN   CHEYNE   EOW.  233 

rule  of  majorities,  the  no-government,  no-leader- 
shijD,  laissez-faire  principle.  Unless  there  was 
evidence  of  a  potent,  supreme,  human  will  guiding 
affairs,  he  had  no  faith  in  the  issue;  unless  the 
hero  was  in  the  saddle,  and  the  dumb  blind  forces 
well  bitted  and  curbed  beneath  him,  he  took  no 
interest  in  the  venture.  The  cause  of  the  iSTorth, 
in  the  War  of  the  Eebellion,  failed  to  enlist  him 
or  touch  him.  It  was  a  people's  war;  the  hand  of 
the  strong  man  was  not  conspicuous;  it  was  a  con- 
flict of  ideas,  rather  than  of  personalities;  there 
was  no  central  and  dominating  figure  around  which 
events  revolved.  He  missed  his  Cromwell,  his 
Frederick.  So  far  as  his  interest  was  aroused  at 
all,  it  was  with  the  South,  because  he  had  heard 
of  the  Southern  slave-driver;  he  knew  Cuffee  had 
a  master,  and  the  crack  of  his  whip  Avas  sweeter 
music  to  him  than  the  crack  of  antislavery  rifles, 
behind  which  he  recognized  only  a  vague,  misdi- 
rected philanthropy. 

Carlyle  did  not  see  things  in  their  relation,  or  as 
a  philosopher;  he  saw  them  detached,  and  hence 
more  or  less  in  conflict  and  opposition.  We  accuse 
him  of  wrong-headedness,  but  it  is  rather  inflexible- 
ness  of  mind  and  temper.  He  is  not  a  brook  that 
flows,  but  a  torrent  that  plunges  and  plows.  He 
tried  poetry,  he  tried  novel- writing  in  his  younger 
days,  but  he  had  not  the  flexibility  of  spirit  to  suc- 
ceed in  these  things;  his  moral  vehemence,  his  fury 
of  conviction,  were  too  great. 

Great   is   the   power   of   reaction   in   the    human 


234  FRESH   FIELDS 

body;  great  is  the  power  of  reaction  and  recoil  in 
all  organic  nature.  But  apparently  there  was  no 
power  of  reaction  in  Carlyle's  mind;  he  never  reacts 
from  his  own  extreme  views;  never  looks  for  the 
compensations,  never  seeks  to  place  himself  at  the 
point  of  equilibrium,  or  adjusts  his  view  to  other 
related  facts.  He  saw  the  value  of  the  hero,  the 
able  man,  and  he  precipitated  himself  upon  this 
fact  with  such  violence,  so  detached  it  and  magnified 
it,  that  it  fits  with  no  modern  system  of  things. 
He  was  apparently  entirely  honest  in  his  conviction 
that  modern  governments  and  social  organizations 
were  rushing  swiftly  to  chaos  and  ruin,  because  the 
hero,  the  natural  leader,  was  not  at  the  head  of 
affairs,  —  overlooking  entirely  the  many  checks  and 
compensations,  and  ignoring  the  fact  that,  under  a 
popular  government  especially,  nations  are  neither 
made  nor  unmade  by  the  wisdom  or  folly  of  their 
rulers,  but  by  the  character  for  w^isdom  and  virtue 
of  the  mass  of  their  citizens.  "Where  the  great 
mass  of  men  is  tolerably  right,"  he  himself  says, 
"all  is  right;  where  they  are  not  right,  all  is 
wrong."  What  difference  can  it  make  to  America, 
for  instance,  to  the  real  growth  and  prosperity  of 
the  nation,  whether  the  ablest  man  goes  to  Congress 
or  fills  the  Presidency  or  the  second  or  third  ablest  ? 
The  most  that  we  can  expect,  in  ordinary  times  at 
least,  is  that  the  machinery  of  universal  suffrage 
will  yield  us  a  fair  sample  of  the  leading  public 
man,  —  a  man  who  fairly  represents  the  average 
ability  and  average  honesty  of  the  better  class   of 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  EOW       235 

the  citizens.  In  extraordinary  times,  in  times  of 
national  peril,  when  there  is  a  real  strain  upon  the 
state,  and  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  comes 
into  play,  then  fate  itself  brings  forward  the  alilest 
men.  The  great  crisis  makes  or  discovers  the  great 
man,  —  discovers  Cromwell,  Frederick,  Washington, 
Lincoln.  Carlyle  leaves  out  of  his  count  entirely 
the  competitive  principle  that  operates  everywhere 
in  nature,  —  in  your  field  and  garden  as  well  as  in 
political  states  and  amid  teeming  populations,  — 
natural  selection,  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  Under 
artificial  conditions  the  operation  of  this  law  is 
more  or  less  checked;  but  amid  the  struggles  and 
parturition  throes  of  a  people,  artificial  conditions 
disappear,  and  we  touch  real  ground  at  last.  What 
a  sorting  and  sifting  process  went  on  in  our  army 
during  the  secession  war,  till  the  real  captains,  the 
real  leaders,  were  found;  not  Fredericks,  or  Wel- 
lingtons, perhaps,  but  the  best  the  land  afforded! 

The  object  of  popular  government  is  no  more  to* 
find  and  elevate  the  hero,  the  man  of  special  and 
exceptional  endowment,  into  power,  than  the  object 
of  agriculture  is  to  take  the  prizes  at  the  agricultural 
fairs.  It  is  one  of  the  things  to  be  hoped  for  and 
aspired  to,  but  not  one  of  the  indispensables.  The 
success  of  free  government  is  attained  when  it  has 
made  the  people  independent  of  special  leaders,  and 
secured  the  free  and  full  expression  of  the  popular 
will  and  conscience.  Any  view  of  American  poli- 
tics, based  upon  the  failure  of  the  suffrage  always, 
or  even  generally,  to  lift  into  power  the  ablest  men. 


236  FRESH   FIELDS 

is  partial  and  unscientific.  We  can  stand,  and  have 
stood,  any  amount  of  mediocrity  in  our  appointed 
rulers ;  and  perhaps  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events 
mediocrity  is  the  safest  and  best.  We  could  no  longer 
surrender  ourselves  to  great  leaders,  if  we  wanted 
to.  Indeed,  there  is  no  longer  a  call  for  great  lead- 
ers; with  the  appearance  of  the  people  upon  the 
scene,  the  hero  must  await  his  orders.  How  often 
in  this  country  have  the  people  checked  and  cor- 
rected the  folly  and  wrong-headedness  of  their 
rulers!  It  is  probably  true,  as  Carlyle  says,  that 
"the  smallest  item  of  human  Slavery  is  the  oppres- 
sion of  man  by  his  Mock-Superiors ;  "  but  shall  we 
accept  the  other  side  of  the  proposition,  that  the 
grand  problem  is  to  find  government  by  our  Real 
Superiors?  The  grand  problem  is  rather  to  be 
superior  to  all  government,  and  to  possess  a  nation- 
ality that  finally  rests  upon  principles  quite  beyond 
the  fluctuations  of  ordinary  politics.  A  people  pos- 
'  sessed  of  the  gift  of  Empire,  like  the  English  stock, 
both  in  Europe  and  in  America,  are  in  our  day 
beholden  very  little  to  their  chosen  rulers.  Other- 
wise the  English  nation  would  have  been  extinct 

long  ago. 

"Human  virtue,"  Carlyle  wrote  in  1850,  "if  we 
went  down  to  the  roots  of  it,  is  not  so  rare.  The 
materials  of  human  virtue  are  everywhere  abundant 
as  the  light  of  the  sun. "  This  may  well  offset  his 
more  pessimistic  statement,  that  "there  are  fools, 
cowards,  knaves,  and  gluttonous  traitors,  true  only 
to  their  own  appetite,  in  immense  majority  in  every 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       237 

rank  of  life;  and  there  is  nothing  frightfuller  than 
to  see  these  voting  and  deciding."  If  we  "went 
down  to  the  roots  of  it,"  this  statement  is  simply 
untrue.  "Democracy,"  he  says,  "is,  by  the  nature 
of  it,  a  self- canceling  business,  and  gives,  in  the 
long  run,  a  net  result  of  zero." 

Because  the  law  of  gravitation  is  uncompromis- 
ing, things  are  not,  therefore,  crushed  in  a  wild 
rush  to  the  centre  of  attraction.  The  very  traits 
that  make  Carlyle  so  entertaining  and  effective  as 
a  historian  and  biographer,  namely,  his  fierce,  man- 
devouring  eyes,  make  him  impracticable  in  the 
sphere  of  practical  politics. 

Let  me  quote  a  long  and  characteristic  passage 
from  Carlyle 's  Latter- Day  Pamphlets,  one  of  dozens 
of  others,  illustrating  his  misconception  of  universal 
suffrage :  — 

"Your  ship  cannot  double  Cape  Horn  by  its 
excellent  plans  of  voting.  The  ship  may  vote  this 
and  that,  above  decks  and  below,  in  the  most  har- 
monious, exquisitely  constitutional  manner;  the 
ship,  to  get  round  Cape  Horn,  will  find  a  set  of 
conditions  already  voted  for  and  fixed  with  adaman- 
tine rigor  by  the  ancient  Elemental  Powers,  who 
are  entirely  careless  how  you  vote.  If  you  can,  by 
voting  or  without  voting,  ascertain  these  conditions, 
and  valiantly  conform  to  them,  you  will  get  around 
the  Cape:  if  you  cannot,  the  ruffian  winds  will 
blow  you  ever  back  again;  the  inexorable  Icebergs, 
dumb  privy-councilors  from  Chaos,  will  nudge  you 
with  most  chaotic  'admonition;  '   you  will  be  flung 


238  FRESH   FIELDS 

half  frozen  on  the  Patagonian  cliffs,  or  admonished 
into  shivers  by  your  iceberg  councilors  and  sent 
sheer  down  to  Davy  Jones,  and  will  never  get 
around  Cape  Horn  at  all!  Unanimity  on  board 
ship  J  —  yes,  indeed,  the  ship's  crew  may  be  very 
unanimous,  Avhich,  doubtless,  for  the  time  being, 
will  be  very  comfortable  to  the  ship's  crew  and  to 
their  Phantasm  Captain,  if  they  have  one;  but  if 
the  tack  they  unanimously  steer  upon  is  guiding 
them  into  the  belly  of  the  Abyss,  it  will  not  prolit 
them  much!  Ships,  accordingly,  do  not  use  the 
ballot-box  at  all;  and  they  reject  the  Phantasm 
species  of  Captain.  One  wishes  much  some  other 
Entities  —  since  all  entities  lie  under  the  same  rig- 
orous set  of  laws  —  could  be  brought  to  show  as 
much  wisdom  and  sense  at  least  of  self-preservation, 
the  first  command  of  nature.  Phantasm  Captains 
with  unanimous  votings,  —  this  is  considered  to  be 
all  the  law  and  all  the  prophets  at  present. " 

This  has  the  real  crushing  Carlylean  wit  and  pic- 
turesqueness  of  statement,  but  is  it  the  case  of 
democracy,  of  universal  suffrage  fairly  put?  The 
eternal  verities  appear  again,  as  they  appear  every- 
where in  our  author  in  connection  with  this  sub- 
ject. They  recur  in  his  pages  like  "minute-guns," 
as  if  deciding,  by  the  count  of  heads,  whether 
Jones  or  Smith  should  go  to  Parliament  or  to  Con- 
gress was  equivalent  to  sitting  in  judgment  upon 
the  law  of  gravitation.  What  the  ship  in  doubling 
Cape  Horn  would  very  likely  do,  if  it  found  itself 
officerless,    would   be   to   choose,    by    some   method 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       239 

more  or  less  approaching  a  count  of  heads,  a  cap- 
tain, an  ablest  man  to  take  command,  and  put  the 
vessel  through.  If  none  were  able,  then  indeed 
the  case  were  desperate;  with  or  without  the  ballot- 
box,  the  abyss  would  be  pretty  sure  of  a  victim. 
In  any  case  there  would  perhaps  be  as  little  voting 
to  annul  the  storms,  or  change  the  ocean  currents, 
as  there  is  in  democracies  to  settle  ethical  or  scien- 
tific principles  by  an  appeal  to  universal  suffrage. 
But  Carlyle  was  fated  to  see  the  abyss  lurking 
under,  and  the  eternities  presiding  over,  every  act 
of  life.  He  saw  everything  in  fearful  gigantic  per- 
spective. It  is  true  that  one  cannot  loosen  the 
latchet  of  his  shoe  without  bending  to  forces  that 
are  cosmical,  sidereal;  but  whether  he  bends  or  not, 
or  this  way  or  that,  he  passes  no  verdict  upon 
them.  The  temporary,  the  expedient,  —  all  those 
devices  and  adjustments  that  are  of  the  nature  of 
scaffolding,  and  that  enter  so  largely  into  the  admin- 
istration of  the  coarser  affairs  of  this  world,  —  were 
with  Carlyle  equivalent  to  the  false,  the  sham,  the 
phantasmal,  and  he  would  none  of  them.  As  the 
ages  seem  to  have  settled  themselves  for  the  present 
and  the  future,  in  all  civilized  countries,  —  and 
especially  in  America, — politics  is  little  more  than 
scaffolding;  it  certainly  is  not  the  house  we  live  in, 
but  an  ajDpurtenance  or  necessity  of  the  house.  A 
government,  in  the  long  run,  can  never  be  better 
or  worse  than  the  people  governed.  In  voting  for 
Jones  for  constable,  am  I  voting  for  or  against  the 
unalterable  laws  of  the  universe,  —  an  act  wherein 


240  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  consequences  of  a  mistake  are  so  appalling  that 
voting  had  better  be  dispensed  with,  and  the  selec- 
tion of  constables  be  left  to  the  evolutionary  princi- 
ple of  the  solar  system? 

Carlyle  was  not  a  reconciler.  When  he  saw  a 
fact,  he  saw  it  with  such  intense  and  magnifying 
eyes,  as  I  have  already  said,  that  it  became  at  once 
irreconcilable  with  other  facts.  He  could  not  and 
would  not  reconcile  popular  government,  the  rule  of 
majorities,  with  what  he  knew  and  what  we  all 
know  to  be  popular  follies,  or  the  proneness  of  the 
multitude  to  run  after  humbugs.  How  easy  for 
fallacies,  speciosities,  quackeries,  etc.,  to  become 
current!  That  a  thing  is  popular  makes  a  wise 
man  look  upon  it  with  suspicion.  Are  the  greatest 
or  best  books  the  most  read  books  1  Have  not  the 
great  principles,  the  great  reforms,  begun  in  minori- 
ties and  fought  their  way  against  the  masses  1  Does 
not  the  multitude  generally  greet  its  saviors  with 
"Crucify  him,  crucify  him'"?  Who  have  been  the 
martyrs  and  the  persecuted  in  all  ages?  Where 
does  the  broad  road  lead  to,  and  which  is  the  Nar- 
row Way?  "Can  it  be  proved  that,  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  there  was  ever  given  a  uni- 
versal vote  in  favor  of  the  worthiest  man  or  thing? 
I  have  always  understood  that  true  worth,  in  any 
department,  was  difficult  to  recognize;  that  the 
worthiest,  if  he  appealed  to  universal  suffrage, 
would  have  but  a  poor  chance." 

Upon  these  facts    Carlyle   planted   himself,   and 
the  gulf  which  he  saw  open  between  them  and  the 


A   SUNDAY   IN   CIIEYNE   ROW  241 

beauties  of  universal  suffrage  was  simply  immense. 
Without  disputing  the  facts  here,  we  may  ask  if 
they  really  bear  upon  the  question  of  popular  gov- 
ernment, of  a  free  ballot  ?  If  so,  then  the  ground 
is  clean  shot  away  from  under  it.  The  world  is 
really  governed  and  led  by  minorities,  and  always 
will  be.  The  many,  sooner  or  later,  follow  the 
one.  We  have  all  become  abolitionists  in  tliis 
country,  some  of  us  much  to  our  surprise  and  be- 
wilderment ;  we  hardly  know  yet  how  it  happened ; 
but  the  time  was  when  abolitionists  were  hunted 
by  the  multitude.  Marvelous  to  relate,  also,  civil 
service  reform  has  become  popular  among  our  poli- 
ticians. Something  has  happened;  the  tide  has 
risen  while  we  slept,  or  while  we  mocked  and 
laughed,  and  away  we  all  go  on  the  current.  Yet 
it  is  equally  true  that,  under  any  form  of  govern- 
ment, nothing  short  of  events  themselves,  nothing 
short  of  that  combination  of  circumstances  which 
we  name  fate  or  fortune,  can  place  that  exceptional 
man,  the  hero,  at  the  head  of  affairs.  If  there  are 
no  heroes,  then  woe  to  the  people  who  have  lost 
the  secret  of  producing  great  men. 

The  worthiest  man  usually  has  other  work  to  do, 
and  avoids  politics.  Carlyle  himself  could  not  be 
induced  to  stand  for  Parliament.  "Wlio  would 
govern,"  he  says,  "that  can  get  along  without  gov- 
erning? He  that  is  fittest  for  it  is  of  all  men  tin* 
unwillingest  unless  constrained."  But  constrained 
he  cannot  be,  yet  he  is  our  only  hope.  What  sliall 
we   do?     A   government   by   the   fittest  can   alono 


242  PRESH   FIELDS 

save  mankind,  yet  the  fittest  is  not  forthcoming. 
We  do  not  know  him;  he  does  not  know  himself. 
The  case  is  desperate.  Hence  the  despair  of  Car- 
lyle  in  his  view  of  modern  politics. 

Who  that  has  read  his  history  of  Frederick  has 
not  at  times  felt  that  he  would  gladly  be  the  sub- 
ject of  a  real  king  like  the  great  Prussian,  a  king 
who  was  indeed  the  father  of  his  people ;  a  sovereign 
man  at  the  head  of  affairs  with  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment all  in  his  own  hands;  an  imperial  husbandman 
devoted  to  improving,  extending,  and  building  up 
his  nation  as  the  farmer  his  farm,  and  toiling  as  no 
husbandman  ever  toiled;  a  man  to  reverence,  to 
love,  to  fear;  who  called  all  the  women  his  daugh- 
ters, and  all  the  men  his  sons,  and  whom  to  see 
and  to  speak  with  was  the  event  of  a  lifetime;  a 
shepherd  to  his  people,  a  lion  to  his  enemies  ?  Such 
a  man  gives  head  and  character  to  a  nation ;  he  is 
the  head  and  the  people  are  the  body ;  currents  of 
influence  and  of  power  stream  down  from  such  a 
hero  to  the  life  of  the  humblest  peasant;  his  spirit 
diffuses  itself  through  the  nation.  It  is  the  ideal 
state;  it  is  x^aptivating  to  the  imagination;  there 
is  an  artistic  completeness  about  it.  Probably  this 
is  why  it  so  captivated  Carlyle,  inevitable  artist 
that  he  was.  But  how  impossible  to  us!  how 
impossible  to  any  English-speaking  people  by  their 
own  action  and  choice;  not  because  we  are  unwor- 
thy such  a  man,  but  because  an  entirely  new  order 
of  things  has  arrived,  and  arrived  in  due  course  of 
time,  through  the  political  and  social  evolution  of 


A   SUNDAY   IN   CIIEYNE   ROW  243 

man.  The  old  world  has  passed  away;  the  age 
of  the  hero,  of  the  strong  leader,  is  gone.  Tlie 
people  have  arrived,  and  sit  in  judgment  ui)on  all 
who  would  rule  or  lead  them.  Science  has  arrived, 
everything  is  upon  trial;  private  judgment  is  su- 
preme. Our  only  hope  in  this  country,  at  least  in 
the  sphere  of  governments,  is  in  the  collective  wis- 
dom of  the  people ;  and,  as  extremes  so  often  meet, 
perhaps  this,  if  thoroughly  realized,  is  as  complete 
and  artistic  a  plan  as  the  others.  The  "collective 
folly  "  of  the  people,  Carlyle  would  say,  and  per- 
haps during  his  whole  life  he  never  for  a  moment 
saw  it  otherwise;  never  saw  that  the  wisdom  of 
the  majority  could  be  other  than  the  no- wisdom 
of  blind  masses  of  unguided  men.  He  seemed  to 
forget,  or  else  not  to  know,  that  universal  suffrage, 
as  exemplified  in  America,  was  really  a  sorting  and 
sifting  process,  a  search  for  the  wise,  the  truly  rep- 
resentative man;  that  the  vast  masses  were  not 
asked  who  should  rule  over  them,  but  were  asked 
which  of  two  candidates  they  preferred,  in  selecting 
which  candidates  what  of  wisdom  and  leadership 
there  was  available  had  had  their  due  weight;  in 
short,  that  democracy  alone  makes  way  for  and  offers 
a  clear  road  to  natural  leadership.  Under  the  pres- 
sure of  opposing  parties,  all  the  political  wisdom  and 
integrity  there  is  in  the  country  stand  between  tlie 
people,  the  masses,  and  the  men  of  their  choice. 

Undoubtedly  popular  government  will,  in  iho. 
main,  be  like  any  other  popular  thing,  —  it  will 
partake    of    the    conditions    of    popularity;    it  will 


244  FRESH   FIELDS 

seldom  elevate  the  greatest;  it  will  never  elevate 
the  meanest;  it  is  based  upon  the  average  virtue 
and  intelligence  of  the  people. 

There  have  been  great  men  in  all  countries  and 
times  who  possessed  the  elements  of  popularity,  and 
would  have  commanded  the  sujffrage  of  the  people; 
on  the  other  hand,  there  have  been  men  who  pos- 
sessed many  elements  of  popularity,  but  few  traits 
of  true  greatness;  others  with  greatness,  but  no 
elements  of  popularity.  These  last  are  the  reform- 
ers, the  innovators,  the  starters,  and  their  greatness 
is  a  discovery  of  after-times.  Popular  suffrage  can- 
not elevate  these  men,  and  if,  as  between  the  two 
other  types,  it  more  frequently  seizes  upon  the  last, 
it  is  because  the  former  is  the  more  rare. 

But  there  is  a  good  deal  of  delusion  about  the 
proneness  of  the  multitude  to  run  after  quacks  and 
charlatans:  a  multitude  runs,  but  a  larger  multitude 
does  not  run;  and  those  that  do  run  soon  see  their 
mistake.  Real  worth,  real  merit,  alone  wins  •  the 
permanent  suffrage  of  mankind.  In  every  neigh- 
borhood and  community  the  best  men  are  held  in 
highest  regard  by  the  most  persons.  The  world 
over,  the  names  most  fondly  cherished  are  those 
most  w^orthy  of  being  cherished.  Yet  this  does  not 
prevent  that  certain  types  of  great  men  —  men  who 
are  in  advance  of  their  times  and  announce  new 
doctrines  and  faiths  —  will  be  rejected  and  denied 
by  their  contemporaries.  This  is  the  order  of  nature. 
Minorities  lead  and  save  the  world,  and  the  world 
knows  them  not  till  long  afterward. 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       245 

No  man  perhaps  suspects  how  large  and  impor- 
tant the  region  of  unconsciousness  in  him,  what  a 
vast,  unknown  territory  lies  there  back  of  his  con- 
scious will  and  purpose,  and  which  is  really  the 
controlling  power  of  his  life.  Out  of  it  things 
arise,  and  shape  and  define  themselves  to  his  con- 
sciousness and  rule  his  career.  Here  the  in- 
fluence of  environment  works;  here  the  elements 
of  race,  of  family;  here  the  Time-Spirit  moulds 
him  and  he  knows  it  not;  here  Nature,  or  Fate,  as 
we  sometimes  name  it,  rules  him  and  makes  him 
what  he  is. 

In  every  people  or  nation  stretches  this  deep, 
unsuspected  background.  Here  the  great  move- 
ments begin;  here  the  deep  processes  go  on;  here 
the  destiny  of  the  race  or  nation  really  lies.  In 
this  soil  the  new  ideas  are  sown;  the  new  man,  the 
despised  leader,  plants  his  seed  here,  and  if  they 
be  vital  they  thrive,  and  in  due  time  emerge  and 
become  the  conscious  possession  of  the  community. 

None  knew  better  than  Carlyle  himself  that, 
whoever  be  the  ostensible  potentates  and  law- 
makers, the  wise  do  virtually  rule,  the  natural 
leaders  do  lead.  Wisdom  will  out:  it  is  the  one 
thing  in  this  world  that  cannot  be  suppressed  or 
annulled.  There  is  not  a  parish,  township,  or  com- 
munity, little  or  big,  in  this  country  or  in  England, 
that  is  not  finally  governed,  shaped,  directed,  built 
up  by  what  of  wisdom  there  is  in  it.  All  the  lead- 
ing industries  and  enterprises  gravitate  naturally  to 
the   hands   best   able   to   control   them.      The   wise 


246  FRESH   FIELDS 

furnish  employment  for   the   unwise,   capital   flows 

to  capital  hands  as  surely  as  water  seeks  water. 

"  Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave." 

There  never  is  and  never  can  be  any  government 
but  by  the  wisest.  In  all  nations  and  communities 
the  law  of  nature  finally  prevails.  If  there  is  no 
wisdom  in  the  people,  there  will  be  none  in  their 
rulers;  the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the  rej^resen- 
tative  will  not  be  essentially  different  from  that  of 
his  constituents.  The  dependence  of  the  foolish, 
the  thriftless,  the  improvident,  upon  his  natural 
master  and  director,  for  food,  employment,  for  life 
itself,  is  just  as  real  to-day  in  America  as  it  was  in 
the  old  feudal  or  patriarchal  times.  The  relation 
between  the  two  is  not  so  obvious,  so  intimate,  so 
voluntary,  but  it  is  just  as  vital  and  essential.  How 
shall  we  know  the  wise  man  unless  he  makes  him- 
self felt,  or  seen,  or  heard?  How  shall  we  know 
the  master  unless  he  masters  us?  Is  there  any 
danger  that  the  real  captains  will  not  step  to  the 
front,  and  that  we  shall  not  know  them  wdien  they 
do?  Shall  we  not  know  a  Luther,  a  Cromwell,  a 
Franklin,  a  Washington  ? 

"Man,"  says  Carlyle,  "little  as  he  may  suppose 
it,  is  necessitated  to  obey  superiors;  he  is  a  social 
being  in  virtue  of  this  necessity;  nay,  he  could 
not  be  gregarious  otherwise;  he  obeys  those  whom 
he  esteems  better  than  himself,  wiser,  braver,  and 
will  forever  obey  such;  and  ever  be  ready  and 
delighted  to  do   it."     Think  in  how  many  ways, 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  KOW       247 

through  how  many  avenues,  in  our  times,  the  wise 
man  can  reach  us  and  place  himself  at  our  head,  or 
mould  us  to  his  liking,  as  orator,  statesman,  poet, 
philosopher,  preacher,  editor.  If  he  has  any  wise 
mind  to  speak,  any  scheme  to  unfold,  there  is  the 
rostrum  or  pulpit  and  crowds  ready  to  hear  him,  or 
there  is  the  steam  power  press  ready  to  disseminate 
his  wisdom  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth.  He 
can  set  up  a  congress  or  a  parliament  and  really 
make  and  unmake  the  laws,  by  his  own  fireside,  in 
any  country  that  has  a  free  press.  "If  we  will 
consider  it,  the  essential  truth  of  the  matter  is, 
every  British  man  can  now  elect  himself  to  Parlia- 
ment without  consulting  the  hustings  at  all.  If 
there  be  any  vote,  idea,  or  notion  in  him,  or  any 
earthly  or  heavenly  thing,  cannot  he  take  a  pen 
and  therewith  autocratically  pour  forth  the  same 
into  the  ears  and  hearts  of  all  people,  so  far  as  it 
will  go  1 "  ("  Past  and  Present. ")  Or,  there  is 
the  pulpit  everywhere  waiting  to  be  worthily  filled. 
What  may  not  the  real  hero  accomplish  here  ?  "  In- 
deed, is  not  this  that  we  call  sjDiritual  guidance 
properly  the  soul  of  the  whole,  the  life  and  eyesight 
of  the  whole?  "  Some  one  has  even  said,  "Let  me 
make  the  songs  of  a  nation  and  I  care  not  who 
makes  the  laws."  Certainly  the  great  poet  of  a 
people  is  its  real  Founder  and  King.  He  rules  for 
centuries  and  rules  in  the  heart. 

In  more  primitive  times,  and  amid  more  rudely 
organized  communities,  the  hero,  the  strong  man, 
could  step  to  the  front  and  seize  the  leadership  like 


248  FRESH   FIELDS  • 

the  buJBfalo  of  the  plains  or  the  wild  horse  of  the 
pampas ;  but  in  our  time,  at  least  among  English- 
speaking  races,  he  must  be  more  or  less  called  by 
the  suffrage  of  the  people.  It  is  quite  certain  that, 
had  there  been  a  seventeenth  or  eighteenth  century 
Carlyle  he  would  not  have  seen  the  hero  in  Crom- 
well, or  in  Frederick,  that  the  nineteenth  century 
Carlyle  saw  in  each.  In  any  case,  in  any  event, 
the  dead  rule  us  more  than  the  living;  we  cannot 
escape  the  past.  It  is  not  merely  by  virtue  of  the 
sunlight  that  falls  now,  and  the  rain  and  dew  that 
it  brings,  that  we  continue  here ;  but  by  virtue  of 
the  sunlight  of  seons  of  past  ages. 

"This  land  of  England  has  its  conquerors,  pos- 
sessors, which  change  from  epoch  to  epoch,  from 
day  to  day;  but  its  real  conquerors,  creators,  and 
eternal  proprietors  are  these  following  and  their 
representatives,  if  you  can  find  them :  all  the  Heroic 
Souls  that  ever  were  in  England,  each  in  their 
degree ;  all  the  men  that  ever  cut  a  thistle,  drained 
a  puddle  out  of  England,  contrived  a  wise  scheme 
in  England,  did  or  said  a  true  and  valiant  thing  in 
England."  "Work?  The  quantity  of  done  and 
forgotten  work  that  lies  silent  under  my  feet  in  this 
world,  and  escorts  and  attends  me  and  supports  and 
keeps  me  alive,  wheresoever  I  walk  or  stand,  what- 
soever I  think  or  do,  gives  rise  to  reflections !  "  In 
our  own  politics,  has  our  first  President  ever  ceased 
to  be  President  ?  Does  he  not  still  sit  there,  the 
stern  and  blameless  patriot,  uttering  counsel? 

Carlyle  had  no  faith  in  the  inherent  tendency  of 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       249 

things  to  right  themselves,  to  adjust  themselves  to 
their  own  proper  standards;  the  conservative  force 
of  Nature,  the  checks  and  balances  by  which  her 
own  order  and  succession  is  maintained ;  the  Dar- 
winian principle,  according  to  which  the  organic 
life  of  the  globe  has  been  evolved,  the  higher  and 
more  complex  forms  mounting  from  the  lower,  the 
true  palingenesia,  the  principle  or  power,  name  it 
Fate,  name  it  Necessity,  name  it  God,  or  what  you 
will,  which  finally  lifts  a  people,  a  race,  an  age, 
and  even  a  community  above  the  reach  of  choice,  of 
accident,  of  individual  will,  into  the  region  of  gen- 
eral law.  So  little  is  life  what  we  make  it,  after 
all;  so  little  is  the  course  of  history,  the  destiny  of 
nations,  the  result  of  any  man's  purpose,  or  direc- 
tion, or.  will,  so  great  is  Pate,  so  insignificant  is 
man!  The  human  body  is  made  up  of  a  vast  con- 
geries or  association  of  minute  cells,  each  with  its 
own  proper  work  and  function,  at  which  it  toils 
incessantly  night  and  day,  and  thinks  of  nothing 
beyond.  The  shape,  the  size,  the  color  of  the 
body,  its  degree  of  health  and  strength,  etc. ,  —  no 
cell  or  series  of  cells  decides  these  points;  a  law 
above  and  beyond  the  cell  determines  them.  The 
final  destiny  and  summing  up  of  a  nation  is,  per- 
haps, as  little  within  the  conscious  will  and  purpose 
of  the  individual  citizens.  When  you  come  to 
large  masses,  to  long  periods,  the  law  of  nature 
steps  in.  The  day  is  hot  or  the  day  is  cold,  the 
spring  is  late  or  the  spring  is  early ;  but  the  incli- 
nation of  the  earth's   axis  makes   the   winter   and 


250  FRESH   FIELDS 

summer  sure.  The  wind  blows  this  way  and  blows 
that,  but  the  great  storms  gyrate  and  travel  in  one 
general  direction.  There  is  a  wind  of  the  globe  that 
never  varies,  and  there  is  the  breeze  of  the  mountain 
that  is  never  two  days  alike.  The  local  hurricane 
moves  the  waters  of  the  sea  to  a  depth  of  but  a 
few  feet,  but  the  tidal  impulse  goes  to  the  bottom. 
Men  and  communities  in  this  world  are  often  in  the 
position  of  arctic  explorers,  who  are  making  great 
speed  in  a  given  direction  while  the  ice-floe  beneath 
them  is  making  greater  speed  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. This  kind  of  progress  has  often  befallen 
political  and  ecclesiastical  parties  in  this  country. 
Behind  mood  lies  temperament;  back  of  the  caprice 
of  will  lies  the  fate  of  character;  back  of  both  is 
the  bias  of  family;  back  of  that,  the  tyranny  of 
race;  still  deeper,  the  power  of  climate,  of  soil,  of 
geology,  the  whole  physical  and  moral  environment. 
Still  we  are  free  men  only  so  far  as  we  rise  above 
these.  We  cannot  abolish  fate,  but  we  can  in  a 
measure  utilize  it.  The  projectile  force  of  the  bul- 
let does  not  annul  or  suspend  gravity;  it  uses  it. 
The  floating  vapor  is  just  as  true  an  illustration  of 
the  law  of  gravity  as  the  falling  avalanche. 

Carlyle,  I  say,  had  sounded  these  depths  that  lie 
beyond  the  region  of  will  and  choice,  beyond  the 
sphere  of  man's  moral  accountability;  but  in  life, 
in  action,  in  conduct,  no  man  shall  take  shelter 
here.  One  may  summon  his  philosophy  when  he 
is  beaten  in  battle,  and  not  till  then.  You  shall 
not  shirk  the  hobbling  Times  to  catch  a  ride  on  the 


A  SUNDAY  IN  GHEYNE  ROW       251 

sure-footed  Eternities.  "The  times  are  bad;  very 
well,  you  are  there  to  make  them  better."  "The 
public  highways  ought  not  to  be  occupied  by  people 
demonstrating  that  motion  is  impossible. "  ("  Chart- 
ism. ") 

III 
Caroline  Fox,  in  her  "Memoirs  of  Old  Friends," 
reports  a  smart  saying  about  Carlyle,  current  in  her 
time,  which  has  been  current  in  some  form  or  other 
ever  since;  namely,  that  he  had  a  large  capital  of 
faith  uninvested,  —  carried  it  about  him  as  ready 
money,  I  suppose,  working  capital.  It  is  certainly 
true  that  it  was  not  locked  up  in  any  of  the  various 
social  and  religious  safe -deposits.  He  employed  a 
vast  deal  of  it  in  his  daily  work.  It  took  not  a 
little  to  set  Cromwell  up,  and  Frederick.  Indeed, 
it  is  doubtful  if  among  his  contemporaries  there 
was  a  man  with  so  active  a  faith,  —  so  little  invested 
in  paper  securities.  His  religion,  as  a  present  liv- 
ing reality,  went  with  him  into  every  question. 
He  did  not  believe  that  the  Maker  of  this  universe 
had  retired  from  business,  or  that  he  was  merely  a 
sleeping  partner  in  the  concern.  "Original  sin," 
he  says,  "and  such  like  are  bad  enough,  I  doubt 
not;  but  distilled  sin,  dark  ignorance,  stupidity, 
dark  corn-law,  bastile  and  company,  what  are  they  1  " 
For  creeds,  theories,  philosophies,  plans  for  reform- 
ing the  world,  etc.,  he  cared  nothing,  he  would 
not  invest  one  moment  in  them;  but  the  hero,  the 
worker,  the  doer,  justice,  veracity,  courage,  these 
drew  him,  — in  these  he  put  his  faith.      What  to 


252  FRESH   FIELDS 

other  people  were  mere  abstractions  were  urgent, 
pressing  realities  to  Carlyle.  Every  truth  or  fact 
with  him  has  a  personal  inclination,  points  to  con- 
duct, points  to  duty.  He  could  not  invest  himself 
in  creeds  and  formulas,  but  in  that  which  yielded 
an  instant  return  in  force,  justice,  character.  He 
has  no  philosophical  impartiality.  He  has  been 
broken  up ;  there  have  been  moral  convulsions ;  the 
rock  stands  on  end.  Hence  the  vehement  and  pre- 
cipitous character  of  his  speech,  —  its  wonderful 
picturesqueness  and  power.  The  spirit  of  gloom 
and  dejection  that  possesses  him,  united  to  such  an 
indomitable  spirit  of  work  and  helpfulness,  is  very 
noteworthy.  Such  courage,  such  faith,  such  un- 
shaken adamantine  belief  in  the  essential  soundness 
and  healthfulness  that  lay  beneath  all  this  weltering 
and  chaotic  world  of  folly  and  evil  about  him,  in 
conjunction  with  such  pessimism  and  despondency, 
was  never  before  seen  in  a  man  of  letters.  I  am 
reminded  that  in  this  respect  he  was  more  like  a 
root  of  the  tree  of  Igdrasil  than  like  a  branch;  one 
of  the  central  and  master  roots,  with  all  that 
implies,  toiling  and  grappling  in  the  gloom,  but 
full  of  the  spirit  of  light.  How  he  delves  and 
searches;  how  much  he  made  live  and  bloom  again; 
how  he  sifted  the  soil  for  the  last  drop  of  heroic 
blood !  The  Fates  are  there,  too,  with  water  from 
the  sacred  well.  He  is  quick,  sensitive,  full  of 
tenderness  and  pity;  yet  he  is  savage  and  brutal 
when  you  oppose  him,  or  seek  to  wrench  him  from 
his  holdings.      His  stormy  outbursts  always  leave 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       253 

the  moral  atmosphere  clear  and  bracing;  he  does 
not  communicate  the  gloom  and  despondency  he 
feels,  because  he  brings  us  so  directly  and  unfail- 
ingly in  contact  with  the  perennial  sources  of  hope 
and  faith,  with  the  life-giving  and  the  life-renew- 
ing. Though  the  heavens  fall,  the  orbs  of  truth 
and  justice  fall  not,  Carlyle  was  like  an  unhoused 
soul,  naked  and  bare  to  every  wind  that  blows. 
He  felt  the  awful  cosmic  chill.  He  could  not  take 
shelter  in  the  creed  of  his  fathers,  nor  in  any  of 
the  opinions  and  beliefs  of  his  time.  He  could  not 
and  did  not  try  to  fend  himself  against  the  keen 
edge  of  the  terrible  doubts,  the  awful  mysteries, 
the  abysmal  questions  and  duties.  He  lived  and 
wrought  on  in  the  visible  presence  of  God.  This 
was  no  myth  to  him,  but  a  terrible  reality.  How 
the  immensities  open  and  yawn  about  him!  He 
was  like  a  man  who  should  suddenly  see  his  rela- 
tions to  the  universe,  both  physical  and  moral,  in 
gigantic  perspective,  and  never  through  life  lose  the 
awe,  the  wonder,  the  fear,  the  revelation  inspired. 
The  veil,  the  illusion  of  the  familiar,  the  common- 
place, is  torn  away.  The  natural  becomes  the  su- 
pernatural. Every  question,  every  character,  every 
duty,  was  seen  against  the  immensities,  like  figures 
in  the  night  against  a  background  of  fire,  and  seen 
as  if  for  the  first  time.  The  sidereal,  the  cosmical, 
the  eternal,  —  we  grow  familiar  with  these  or  lose 
sight  of  them  entirely.  But  Carlyle  never  lost 
sight  of  them;  his  sense  of  them  became  morljidly 
acute,   preternaturally  developed,   and  it  was  as  if 


254  FRESH   FIELDS 

lie  saw  every  movement  of  the  hand,  every  fall  of 
a  leaf,  as  an  emanation  of  solar  energy.  A  "hag- 
gard mood  of  the  imagination"  (his  own  phrase) 
was  habitual  with  him.  He  could  see  only  the 
tragical  in  life  and  in  history.  Events  were  immi- 
nent, poised  like  avalanches  that  a  word  might 
loosen.  We  see  Jeffries  perpetually  amazed  at  his 
earnestness,  the  gradations  in  his  mind  were  so 
steep;  the  descent  from  the  thought  to  the  deed 
was  so  swift  and  inevitable  that  the  witty  advocate 
came  to  look  upon  him  as  a  man  to  be  avoided. 

"Daily  and  hourly,"  he  says  (at  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight),  "the  world  natural  grows  more  of  a  world 
magical  to  me;  this  is  as  it  should  be.  Daily,  too, 
I  see  that  there  is  no  true  poetry  but  in  reality. " 

"The  gist  of  my  whole  way  of  thought,"  he  says 
again,  "is  to  raise  the  natural  to  the  supernatural." 
To  his  brother  John  he  wrote  in  1832:  "I  get 
more  earnest,  graver,  not  unhappier,  every  day. 
The  whole  creation  seems  more  and  more  divine  to 
me,  the  natural  more  and  more  supernatural."  His 
eighty-five  years  did  not  tame  him  at  all,  did  not 
blunt  his  conception  of  the  "fearfulness  and  won- 
derfulness  of  life."  Sometimes  an  opiate  or  an 
anaesthetic  operates  inversely  upon  a  constitution, 
and,  instead  of  inducing  somnolence,  makes  the  per- 
son Avildly  wakeful  and  sensitive.  The  anodyne  of 
life  acted  this  way  upon  Carlyle,  and,  instead  of 
quieting  or  benumbing  him,  filled  him  with  portent- 
ous imaginings  and  fresh  cause  for  wonder.  There 
is  a  danger  that  such  a  mind,  if  it  takes  to  litera- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       255 

ture,  will  make  a  mess  of  it.  But  Caiiyle  is  saved 
by  his  tremendous  gripe  upon  reality.  Do  I  say 
the  ideal  and  the  real  were  one  with  him  ?  Ho 
made  the  ideal  the  real,  and  the  only  real.  What- 
ever he  touched  he  made  tangible,  actual,  and  vivid. 
Ideas  are  hurled  like  rocks,  a  word  blisters  like  a 
branding- iron,  a  metaphor  transfixes  like  a  javelin. 
There  is  something  in  his  sentences  that  lays  hold 
of  things,  as  the  acids  bite  metals.  His  subtle 
thoughts,  his  marvelous  wit,  like  the  viewless  gases 
of  the  chemist,  combine  with  a  force  that  startles 
the  reader. 

Carlyle  differs  from  the  ordinary  religious  enthu- 
siast in  the  way  he  bares  his  bosom  to  the  storm. 
His  attitude  is  rather  one  of  gladiatorial  resignation 
than  supplication.  He  makes  peace  with  nothing, 
takes  refuge  in  nothing.  He  flouts  at  happiness, 
at  repose,  at  joy.  "There  is  in  man  a  higher  than 
love  of  happiness;  he  can  do  without  happiness, 
and  instead  thereof  find  blessedness."  "The  life 
of  all  gods  figures  itself  to  us  as  a  sublime  sadness, 
—  earnestness  of  infinite  battle  against  infinite  labor. 
Our  highest  religion  is  named  the  '  Worship  of 
Sorrow.'  For  the  Son  of  Man  there  is  no  noble 
crown,  well  worn  or  even  ill  worn,  but  is  a  crown 
of  thorns."  His  own  worship  is  a  kind  of  defiant 
admiration  of  Eternal  Justice.  He  asks  no  quar- 
ter, and  will  give  none.  He  turns  upon  the  grim 
destinies  a  look  as  undismayed  and  as  uncompromis- 
ing as  their  own.  Despair  cannot  crush  him;  he 
will  crush  it.      The  more  it  bears  on,  the  harder  ho 


256  FRESH   FIELDS 

will  work.  The  way  to  get  rid  of  wretchedness  is 
to  despise  it;  the  way  to  conquer  the  devil  is  to 
defy  him;  the  way  to  gain  heaven  is  to  turn  your 
back  upon  it,  and  be  as  unflinching  as  the  gods 
themselves.  Satan  may  be  roasted  in  his  own 
flames;  Tophet  may  be  exploded  with  its  own  sul- 
phur. "Despicable  biped!  "  (Teufelsdrokh  is  ad- 
dressing himself.)  "What  is  the  sum  total  of  the 
worst  that  lies  before  thee  ?  Death  ?  Well,  death ; 
and  say  the  pangs  of  Tophet,  too,  and  all  that  the 
devil  and  man  may,  will,  or  can  do  against  thee! 
Hast  thou  not  a  heart?  Canst  thou  not  suffer 
what  so  it  be,  and  as  a  child  of  freedom,  though 
outcast,  trample  Tophet  itself  under  thy  feet  while 
it  consumes  thee*?  Let  it  come,  then;  I  will  meet 
it  and  defy  it."  This  is  the  "Everlasting  No" 
of  Teufelsdrokh,  the  annihilation  of  self.  Having 
thus  routed  Satan  with  his  own  weapons,  the 
"Everlasting  Yea"  is  to  people  his  domain  with 
fairer  forms;  to  find  your  ideal  in  the  world  about 
you.  "Thy  condition  is  but  the  stuff  thou  art  to 
shape  that  same  ideal  out  of;  what  matters  whether 
such  stuff  be  of  this  sort  or  of  that,  so  the  form 
thou  give  it  be  heroic,  be  poetic?  "  Carlyle's 
watchword  through  life,  as  I  have  said,  was  the 
German  word  Entsagen^  or  renunciation.  The 
perfect  flower  of  religion  opens  in  the  soul  only 
when  all  self-seeking  is  abandoned.  The  divine, 
the  heroic  attitude  is:  "I  ask  not  Heaven,  I  fear 
not  Hell;  I  crave  the  truth  alone,  withersoever  it 
may  lead."     "Truth!  I  cried,  though  the  heavens 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       257 

crush  me  for  following  her;  no  falsehood,  though 
a  celestial  lubberland  were  the  price  of  apostasy." 
The  truth,  —  what  is  the  truth  ?  Carlyle  answers : 
That  which  you  believe  with  all  your  soul  and  all 
your  might  and  all  your  strength,  and  are  ready  to 
face  Tophet  for,  —  that,  for  you,  is  the  truth. 
Such  a  seeker  was  he  himself.  It  matters  little 
whether  we  agree  that  he  found  it  or  not.  The 
law  of  this  universe  is  such  that  where  the  love, 
the  desire,  is  perfect  and  supreme,  the  truth  is 
already  found.  That  is  the  truth,  not  the  letter 
but  the  spirit;  the  seeker  and  the  sought  are  one. 
Can  you  by  searching  find  out  God  ?  "  Moses  cried, 
'When,  0  Lord,  shall  I  find  thee-?  God  said. 
Know  that  when  thou  hast  sought  thou  hast  already 
found  me. '"  This  is  Carlyle's  position,  so  far  as 
it  can  be  defined.  He  hated  dogma  as  he  hated 
poison.  No  direct  or  dogmatic  statement  of  reli- 
gious belief  or  opinion  could  he  tolerate.  He  aban- 
doned the  church,  for  which  his  father  designed 
him,  because  of  his  inexorable  artistic  sense;  he 
could  not  endure  the  dogma  that  the  church  rested 
upon,  the  pedestal  of  clay  upon  which  the  golden 
image  was  reared.  The  gold  he  held  to,  as  do  all 
serious  souls,  but  the  dogma  of  clay  he  quickly 
dropped.  "Whatever  becomes  of  us,"  he  said, 
referring  to  this  subject  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  when 
he  was  in  his  twenty-third  year,  "never  let  us 
cease  to  behave  like  honest  men." 


258  FRESH   FIELDS 

IV 

Carlyle  had  an  enormous  egoism,  but  to  do  the 
work  he  felt  called  on  to  do,  to  offset  and  withstand 
the  huge,  roaring,  on-rushing  modern  world  as  he 
did,  required  an  enormous  egoism.  In  more  senses 
than  one  do  the  words  applied  to  the  old  prophet 
apply  to  him:  "For,  behold,  I  have  made  thee  this 
day  a  defenced  city,  and  an  iron  pillar,  and  brazen 
walls  against  the  whole  land,  against  the  kings  of 
Judah,  against  the  princes  thereof,  against  the  priests 
thereof,  and  against  the  people  of  the  land."  He 
was  a  defenced  city,  an  iron  pillar,  and  brazen  wall, 
in  the  extent  to  which  he  was  riveted  and  clinched 
in  his  own  purpose  and  aim,  as  well  as  in  his  atti- 
tude of  opposition  or  hostility  to  the  times  in  which 
he  lived. 

Froude,  whose  life  of  Carlyle  in  its  just  com- 
pleted form,  let  me  say  here,  has  no  equal  in  inter- 
est or  literary  value  among  biographies  since  his 
master's  life  of  Sterling,  presents  his  hero  to  us 
a  prophet  in  the  literal  and  utilitarian  sense,  as  a 
foreteller  of  the  course  of  events,  and  says  that  an 
adequate  estimate  of  his  work  is  not  yet  jDOssible. 
We  must  wait  and  see  if  he  was  right  about  demo- 
cracy, about  America,  universal  suffrage,  progress 
of  the  species,  etc.  "Whether  his  message  was  a 
true  message  remains  to  be  seen."  "If  he  was 
wrong  he  has  misused  his  powers.  The  principles 
of  his  teaching  are  false.  He  has  offered  himself 
as  a  guide  upon  a  road  of  which  he  had  no  know- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       259 

ledge;  and  his  own  desire  for  himself  would  be  the 
speediest  oblivion  both  of  his  person  and  his 
works. " 

But  the  man  was  true;  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  that,  and  when  such  is  the  case  the  message 
may  safely  be  left  to  take  care  of  itself.  We  have 
got  the  full  force  and  benefit  of  it  in  our  own  day 
and  generation,  whether  our  "cherished  ideas  of 
political  liberty,  with  their  kindred  corollaries," 
prove  illusions  or  not.  All  high  spiritual  and  pro- 
phetic utterances  are  instantly  their  own  proof  and 
Justification,  or  they  are  naught.  Does  Mr.  Froude 
really  mean  that  the  prophecies  of  Jeremiah  and 
Isaiah  have  become  a  part  of  the  permanent  "  spir- 
itual inheritance  of  mankind  "  because  they  were 
literally  fulfilled  in  specific  instances,  and  not  be- 
cause they  were  true  from  the  first  and  always,  as 
the  impassioned  yearnings  and  uprisings  and  reach- 
ings-forth  of  high  God-burdened  souls  at  all  times 
are  true?  Kegarded  merely  as  a  disturbing  and 
overturning  force,  Carlyle  was  of  great  value.  There 
never  was  a  time,  especially  in  an  era  like  ours, 
.  when  the  opinion  and  moral  conviction  of  the  race 
did  not  need  subsoiling,  loosening  up  from  the  bot- 
tom, —  the  shock  of  rude,  scornful,  merciless  power. 
There  are  ten  thousand  agencies  and  instrumental- 
ities titillating  the  surface,  smoothing,  pulverizing, 
and  vulgarizing  the  top.  Chief  of  these  is  the 
gigantic,  ubiquitous  newspaper  press,  without  char- 
acter and  without  conscience;  then  the  lyceum, 
the   pulpit,   the   novel,   the  club,  —  all  cultivating 


260  FRESH  FIELDS 

the  superficies,  and  helping  make  life  shallow  and 
monotonous.  How  deep  does  the  leading  editorial 
go,  or  the  review  article,  or  the  Sunday  sermon? 
But  such  a  force  as  Carlyle  disturbs  our  compla- 
cency. Opinion  is  shocked,  but  it  is  deepened. 
The  moral  and  intellectual  resources  of  all  men 
have  been  added  to.  But  the  literal  fulfillment  and 
verification  of  his  prophecies,  —  shall  we  insist 
upon  that?  Is  not  a  prophet  his  own  proof,  the 
same  as  a  poet?  Must  we  summon  witnesses  and 
go  into  the  justice-court  of  fact?  The  only  ques- 
tions to  be  asked  are:  Was  he  an  inspired  man? 
was  his  an  authoritative  voice  ?  did  he  touch  bot- 
tom ?  was  he  sincere  ?  was  he  grounded  and  rooted 
in  character?  It  is  not  the  stamp  on  the  coin  that 
gives  it  its  value,  though  on  the  bank-note  it  is. 
Carlyle' s  words  were  not  promises,  but  perform- 
ances; they  are  good  now  if"  ever.  To  test  him 
by  his  political  opinions  is  like  testing  Shakespeare 
by  his  fidelity  to  historical  fact  in  his  plays,  or 
judging  Lucretius  by  his  philosophy,  or  Milton 
or  Dante  by  their  theology.  Carlyle  was  just  as 
distinctively  an  imaginative  writer  as  were  any  of 
these  men,  and  his  case  is  to  be  tried  on  the  same 
grounds.  It  is  his  utterances  as  a  seer  touching 
conduct,  touching  duty,  touching  nature,  touching 
the  soul,  touching  life,  that  most  concern  us,  — the 
ideal  to  be  cherished,  the  standard  he  held  to. 

Carlyle  was  a  poet  touched  with  religious  wrath 
and  fervor,  and  he  confronted  his  times  and  country 
as  squarely  and  in  the  same  spirit  as  did  the  old 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       261 

prophets.  He  predicts  nothing,  foretells  nothing, 
except  death  and  destruction  to  those  who  depart 
from  the  ways  of  the  Lord,  or,  in  modern  phrase, 
from  nature  and  truth.  He  shared  the  Hebraic 
sense  of  the  awful  mystery  and  fearfulness  of  life 
and  the  splendor  and  inexorableness  of  the  moral 
law.  His  habitual  mood  was  not  one  of  contem- 
plation and  enjoyment,  but  of  struggle  and  "des- 
perate hope. "  The  deep  biblical  word  fear,  —  fear 
of  the  Lord,  —  he  knew  what  that  meant,  as  few 
moderns  did. 

He  was  antagonistic  to  his  country  and  his  times, 
and  who  would  have  had  him  otherwise  ?  Let  him 
be  the  hammer  on  the  other  side  that  clinches  the 
nail.  He  did  not  believe  in  democracy,  in  popular 
sovereignty,  in  the  progress  of  the  species,  in  the 
political  equality  of  Jesus  and  Judas;  in  fact,  he 
repudiated  with  mingled  wrath  and  sorrow  the 
whole  American  idea  and  theory  of  politics:  yet 
who  shall  say  that  his  central  doctrine  of  the  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest,  the  nobility  of  labor,  the  exal- 
tation of  justice,  valor,  pity,  the  leadership  of  char- 
acter, truth,  nobility,  wisdom,  etc.,  is  really  and 
finally  inconsistent  with,  or  inimical  to,  that  which 
is  valuable  and  permanent  and  formative  in  the 
modern  movement  ?  I  think  it  is  the  best  medicine 
and  regimen  for  it  that  could  be  suggested,  —  the 
best  stay  and  counterweight.  For  the  making  of 
good  democrats,  there  are  no  books  like  Carlyle's, 
and  we  in  America  need  especially  to  cherish  him, 
and  to  lay  his  lesson  to  heart. 


262  FRESH   FIELDS 

It  is  his  supreme  merit  that  he  spoke  with  abso- 
lute sincerity;  not  according  to  the  beliefs,  tradi- 
tions, conventionalities  of  his  times,  for  they  were 
mostly  against  him,  but  according  to  his  private 
and  solemn  conviction  of  what  the  will  of  his  Maker 
with  reference  to  himself  was.  The  reason  why  so 
much  writing  and  preaching  sounds  hollow  and 
insincere  compared  with  his  is  that  the  writers  and 
speakers  are  mostly  under  the  influence  of  current 
beliefs  or  received  traditions;  they  deliver  them- 
selves of  what  they  have  been  taught,  or  what  is 
fashionable  and  pleasant;  they  draw  upon  a  sort  of 
public  fund  of  conviction  and  sentiment  and  not  at 
all  from  original  private  resources,  as  he  did.  It 
is  not  their  own  minds  or  their  own  experience  they 
speak  from,  but  a  vague,  featureless,  general  mind 
and  general  experience.  We  drink  from  a  cistern 
or  reservoir  and  not  from  a  fountain-head.  Carlyle 
always  takes  us  to  the  source  of  intense  jDersonal 
and  original  conviction.  The  spring  may  be  a  hot 
spring,  or  a  sulphur  spring,  or  a  spouting  spring,  — 
a  geyser,  as  Froude  says,  shooting  up  volumes  of 
steam  and  stone,  —  or  the  most  refreshing  and  deli- 
cious of  fountains  (and  he  seems  to  have  been  all 
these  things  alternately);  but  in  any  case  it  was 
an  original  source  and  came  from  out  the  depths, 
at  times  from  out  the  Plutonic  depths. 

He  bewails  his  gloom  and  loneliness,  and  the 
isolation  of  his  soul  in  the  paths  in  which  he  was 
called  to  walk.  In  many  ways  he  was  an  exile, 
a  wanderer,  forlorn  or  uncertain,  like  one  who  had 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       2G3 

missed  the  road,  — at  times  groping  about  sorrow- 
fully, anon  desperately  hewing  his  way  through 
all  manner  of  obstructions.  He  presents  the  sin- 
gular anomaly  of  a  great  man,  of  a  towering  and 
unique  genius,  such  as  appears  at  intervals  of  cen- 
turies, who  was  not  in  any  sense  representative, 
who  had  no  precursors  and  who  left  no  followers,  — 
a  man  isolated,  exceptional,  tow^ering  like  a  solitary 
peak  or  cone  set  over  against  the  main  ranges.  He 
is  in  line  with  none  of  the  great  men,  or  small 
men,  of  his  age  and  country.  His  message  is  unwel- 
come to  them.  He  is  an  enormous  reaction  or 
rebound  from  the  all-leveling  tendencies  of  demo- 
cracy. No  wonder  he  thought  himself  the  most 
solitary  man  in  the  world,  and  bewailed  his  loneli- 
ness continually.  He  was  the  most  solitary.  Of 
all  the  great  men  his  race  and  country  have  pro- 
duced, none,  perhaps,  were  quite  so  isolated  and 
set  apart  as  he.  None  shared  so  little  the  life  and 
aspirations  of  their  countrymen,  or  were  so  little 
sustained  by  the  spirit  of  their  age.  The  literature, 
the  religion,  the  science,  the  politics  of  his  times 
weve  alike  hateful  to  him.  His  spirit  was  as  lonely 
as  a  "peak  in  Darien."  He  felt  himself  on  a  nar- 
row isthmus  of  time,  confronted  by  two  eternities, 
—  the  eternity  past  and  the  eternity  to  come. 
Daily  and  hourly  he  felt  the  abysmal  solitude  that 
surrounded  him.  Endowed  with  the  richest  fund 
of  sympathy,  and  yet  sympathizing  with  so  little; 
burdened  with  solicitude  for  the  public  weal,  and 
yet  in  no  vital  or  intimate  relation  with  the  public 


264  FRESH   FIELDS 

he  would  serve;  deeply  absorbed  in  the  social  and 
political  problems  of  his  time,  and  yet  able  to  arrive 
at  no  adequate  practical  solution  of  them;  passion- 
ately religious,  and  yet  repudiating  all  creeds  and 
forms  of  worship;  despising  the  old  faiths,  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  new ;  honoring  science,  and  acknow- 
ledging his  debt  to  it,  yet  drawing  back  with  horror 
from  conclusions  to  which  science  seemed  inevit- 
ably to  lead;  essentially  a  man  of  action,  of  deeds, 
of  heroic  fibre,  yet  forced  to  become  a  "writer  of 
books ; "  a  democrat  who  denounced  democracy ;  a 
radical  who  despised  radicalism;  "a  Puritan  with- 
out a  creed." 

These  things  measure  the  depth  of  his  sincerity; 
he  never  lost  heart  or  hope,  though  heart  and  hope 
had  so  little  that  was  tangible  to  go  upon.  He  had 
the  piety  and  zeal  of  a  religious  devotee,  without 
the  devotee's  comforting  belief;  the  fiery  earnest- 
ness of  a  reformer,  without  the  reformer's  definite 
aims;  the  spirit  of  science,  without  the  scientific 
coolness  and  disinterestedness;  the  heart  of  a  hero, 
without'  the  hero's  insensibilities;  he  had  strag- 
glings, wrestlings,  agonizings,  without  any  sense  of 
victory;  his  foes  were  invisible  and  largely  imagi- 
nary, but  all  the  more  terrible  and  unconquerable 
on  that  account.  Verily  was  he  lonely,  heavy 
laden,  and  at  best  full  of  "desperate  hope."  His 
own  work,  which  was  accomplished  with  such  pains 
and  labor  throes,  gave  him  no  satisfaction.  AVhen 
he  was  idle,  his  demon  tormented  him  with  the 
cry,  "Work,   work;"  and  when  he  was  toiling  at 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW       265 

his  tasks,  his  obstructions,  torpidities,  and  dispirit- 
ments  nearly  crushed  him. 

It  is  probably  true  that  he  thought  he  had  some 
special  mission  to  mankind,  something  as  definite 
and  tangible  as  Luther  had.  His  stress  and  heat 
of  conviction  Avere  such  as  only  the  great  world- 
reformers  have  been  possessed  of.  He  was  bur- 
dened with  the  sins  and  follies  of  mankind,  and 
must  mend  them.  His  mission  was  to  mend  them, 
but  perhaps  in  quite  other  ways  than  he  thought. 
He  sought  to  restore  an  age  fast  passing,  —  the  age 
of  authority,  the  age  of  the  heroic  leader;  but 
toward  the  restoration  of  such  age  he  had  no  effect 
whatever.  The  tide  of  democracy  sweeps  on.  He 
was  like  Xerxes  whipping  the  sea.  His  real  mis- 
sion he  was  far  less  conscious  of,  for  it  was  what 
his  search  for  the  hero  implied  and  brought  forward 
that  he  finally  bequeathed  us.  If  he  did  not  make 
us  long  for  the  strong  man  to  rule  over  us,  he  made 
us  love  all  manly  and  heroic  qualities  afresh,  and  as 
if  by  a  new  revelation  of  their  value.  He  made  all 
shallownesses  and  shams  wear  such  a  face  as  they 
never  before  wore.  He  made  it  easier  for  all  men 
to  be  more  truthful  and  earnest.  Hence  his  final 
effect  and  value  was  as  a  fountain  of  fresh  moral 
conviction  and  power.  The  old  stock  truths  per- 
petually need  restating  and  reapplying  on  fresh 
grounds  and  in  large  and  unexpected  ways.  And 
how  he  restated  them  and  reinforced  tliem!  vera- 
city, sincerity,  courage,  justice,  manliness,  religious- 
ness, —  fairly  burning  them  into  the  conscience  of 


266  FRESH   FIELDS 

his  times.  He  took  the  great  facts  of  existence  out 
of  the  mouths  of  priests,  out  of  their  conventional 
theological  swathing,  where  they  were  fast  becom- 
ing mummified,  and  presented  them  quick  or  as 
living  and  breathing  realities. 

It  may  be  added  that  Carlyle  was  one  of  those 
men  whom  the  world  can  neither  make  nor  break, 
—  a  meteoric  rock  from  out  the  fiery  heavens, 
bound  to  hit  hard  if  not  self-consumed,  and  not 
looking  at  all  for  a  convenient  or  a  soft  place  to 
alight,  —  a  blazing  star  in  his  literary  expression, 
but  in  his  character  and  purpose  the  most  tangible 
and  unconquerable  of  men.  "Thou,  0  World, 
how  wilt  thou  secure  thyself  .  against  this  man  1 
Thou  canst  not  hire  him  by  thy  guineas,  nor  by 
thy  gibbets  and  law  penalties  restrain  him.  He 
eludes  thee  like  a  Spirit.  Thou  canst  not  forward 
him,  thou  canst  not  hinder  him.  Thy  penalties, 
thy  poverties,  neglects,  contumelies:  behold,  all 
these  are  good  for  him.'' 


XI 

AT   SEA 

ONE  does  not  seem  really  to  have  got  out-of- 
doors  till  he  goes  to  sea.  On  the  land  he  is 
shut  in  by  the  hills,  or  the  forests,  or  more  or  less 
housed  by  the  sharp  lines  of  his  horizon.  But  at 
sea  he  finds  the  roof  taken  off,  the  walls  taken 
down;  he  is  no  longer  in  the  hollow  of  the  earth's 
hand,  but  upon  its  naked  back,  with  nothing  be- 
tween him  and  the  immensities.  He  is  in  the 
great  cosmic  out-of-doors,  as  much  so  as  if  voyaging 
to  the  moon  or  to  Mars.  An  astronomic  solitude 
and  vacuity  surround  him;  his  only  guides  and 
landmarks  are  stellar;  the  earth  has  disappeared; 
the  horizon  has  gone ;  he  has  only  the  sky  and  its 
orbs  left;  this  cold,  vitreous,  blue  -  black  liquid 
through  which  the  ship  plows  is  not  water,  but 
some  denser  form  of  the  cosmic  ether.  He  can 
now  see  the  curve  of  the  sphere  Avhich  the  hills  hid 
from  him ;  he  can  study  astronomy  under  improved 
conditions.  If  he  was  being  borne  through  the 
interplanetary  spaces  on  an  immense  shield,  his 
impressions  would  not  perhaps  be  much  dilfercnt. 
He  would  find  the  same  vacuity,  the  same  blank  or 
negative  space,  tlie  same  empty,  indefinite,  oppres- 
sive out-of-doors. 


\ 


268  FEESH   FIELDS 

For  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  voyage  at  sea  is 
more    impressive    to   the   imagination   than   to   the 
actual  sense.      The  world  is  left  behind;  all  stand- 
ards of  size,  of  magnitude,  of  distance,  are  vanished; 
there  is  no  size,  no  form,  no  perspective;  the  uni- 
verse has  dwindled  to   a  little   circle  of  crumpled 
water,  that  journeys  with  you  day  after  day,  and  to 
which  you  seem  bound  by  some  enchantment.     The 
sky  becomes  a  shallow,    close-fitting  dome,  or  else 
a  pall  of  cloud  that  seems  ready  to  descend  upon 
you.     You  cannot  see  or  realize  the  vast  and  vacant 
surrounding;  there  is  nothing  to  define  it  or  set  it 
off.      Three  thousand  miles  of  ocean  space  are  less 
impressive   than    three    miles    bounded    by   rugged 
mountains  walls.      Indeed,    the  grandeur  of   form, 
of  magnitude,   of  distance,  of  proportion,  are   only 
upon  shore.      A  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  is   an 
eight  or  ten  day  sail   through   vacancy.      There   is 
no  sensible  progress;  you  pass  no  fixed  points.      Is 
it  the  steamer  that  is  moving,  or  is  it  the  sea  ?  or 
is  it  all  a  dance  and  illusion  of  the  troubled  brain? 
Yesterday,  to-day,    and  to-morrow,   you  are  in  the 
same  parenthesis  of  nowhere.      The  three  hundred 
or  more  miles  the  ship  daily  makes  is  ideal,   not 
real.      Every  night  the  stars  dance  and  reel  there 
in  the  same  place  amid  the  rigging;  every  morning 
the  sun  comes  up  from  behind  the  same  wave,  and 
staggers   slowly  across   the  sinister  sky.      The  eye 
becomes  a-hunger  for  form,  for  permanent  lines,  for 
a  horizon  wall  to  lift  up  and  keep  off  the  sky,  and 
give   it   a   sense   of    room.      One   understands   why 


AT   SEA  2G9 

sailors  become  an  imaginative  and  superstitious 
race;  it  is  the  reaction  from  this  narrow  horizon  in 
which  they  are  pent,  —  this  ring  of  fate  surrounds 
and  oppresses  them.  They  escape  by  invoking  the 
aid  of  the  supernatural.  In  the  sea  itself  there  is 
far  less  to  stimulate  the  imagination  than  in  the 
varied  forms  and  colors  of  the  land.  How  cold 
how  merciless,  how  elemental  it  looks ! 

The  only  things  that  look  familiar  at  sea  are  the 
clouds.  These  are  messengers  from  home,  and  how 
weary  and  disconsolate  they  ajDpear,  stretching  out 
along  the  horizon,  as  if  looking  for  a  hill  or  moun- 
tain-top to  rest  upon,  —  nothing  to  hold  them  up, 
—  a  roof  without  walls,  a  span  without  piers.  One 
gets  the  impression  that  they  are  grown  faint,  and 
must  presently,  if  they  reach  much  farther,  fall  into 
the  sea.  But  when  the  rain  came,  it  seemed  like 
mockery  or  irony  on  the  part  of  the  clouds.  Did 
one  vaguely  believe,  then,  that  the  clouds  would 
respect  the  sea,  and  withhold  their  needless  rain? 
No,  they  treated  it  as  if  it  were  a  mill-pond,  or 
a  spring-run,  too  insignificant  to  make  any  excep- 
tions to. 

One  bright  Sunday,  when  the  surface  of  the  sea 
was  like  glass,  a  long  chain  of  cloud-mountains  lay 
to  the  south  of  us  all  day,  while  the  rest  of  the  sky 
was  clear.  How  they  glowed  in  the  strong  sun- 
light, their  summits  shining  like  a  bouquet  of  full 
moons,  and  making  a  broad,  white,  or  golden  path 
upon  the  water !  They  came  out  of  the  southwest, 
an  endless  procession  of  them,  and  tapered  away  in 


270  FRESH   FIELDS 

the  east.      They  were  the  piled,  convoluted,  indo- 
lent  clouds  of    midsummer,  —  thunder-clouds    that 
had    retired    from    business;     the    captains    of    the 
storm  in  easy  undress.      All  day  they  filed  along 
there,    keeping   the  ship  company.      How  the  eye 
reveled  in  their  definite,  yet  ever-changing,  forms ! 
Their  under  or  base  line  was  as  straight  and  contin- 
uous as  the  rim  of  the  ocean.      The  substratum  of 
air  upon  which  they  rested  was  like  a  uniform  layer 
of  granite  rock,  invisible,  but  all-resisting;  not  one 
particle  of  these  vast   cloud-mountains,   so   broken 
and    irregular   in  their   summits,    sank   below   this 
aerial  granite  boundary.      The   equilibrium   of  the 
air  is  frequently  such  that  the  under-surface  of  the 
clouds  is  like  a  ceiling.      It  is  a  fair-weather  sign, 
whether  upon  the  sea  or  upon  the  land.      One  may 
frequently  see  it  in  a  mountainous  district,   when 
the  fog- clouds  settle  down,  and  blot  out  all  the  tops 
of  the  mountains  without  one  fleck  of  vapor  going 
below  a  given  line  which  runs  above  every  valley, 
as  uniform  as  the  sea- level.      It  is  probable  that  in 
fair  weather  the  atmosphere  always  lies  in  regular 
strata  in  this  way,  and  that  it  is  the  displacement 
and  mixing  up  of  these  by  some  unknown  cause 
that  produces  storms. 

As  the  sun  neared  the  horizon  these  cloud-masses 
threw  great  blue  shadows  athwart  each  other,  which 
afforded  the  eye  a  new  pleasure. 

Late  one  afternoon  the  clouds  assumed  a  still 
more  friendly  and  welcome  shape.  A  long,  purple, 
irregular  range  of  them  rose  up  from  the  horizon  in 


AT   SEA  271 

the  northwest,  exactly  stimulating  distant  moun- 
tains. The  sun  sank  behind  them,  and  threw  out 
great  spokes  of  light  as  from  behind  my  native  Cats- 
kills.  Then  gradually  a  low,  wooded  shore  came 
into  view  along  their  base.  It  proved  to  be  a  fog- 
bank  lying  low  upon  the  water,  but  it  copied  exactly, 
in  its  forms  and  outlines,  a  flat,  umbrageous  coast. 
You  could  see  distinctly  where  it  ended,  and  where 
the  water  began.  I  sat  long  on  that  side  of  the 
ship,  and  let  my  willing  eyes  deceive  themselves. 
I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the  comfortable  feeling 
inspired  by  the  prospect.  It  was  to  the  outward 
sense  what  dreams  and  reveries  are  to  the  inward. 
That  blind,  instinctive  love  of  the  land,  —  I  did 
not  know  how  masterful  and  involuntary  the  im- 
pulse was,  till  I  found  myself  warming  up  toward 
that  phantom  coast.  The  emj^ty  void  of  the  sea 
was  partly  filled,  if  only  with  a  shadow.  The 
inhuman  desolation  of  the  ocean  was  blotted  out 
for  a  moment,  in  that  direction  at  least.  What 
phantom-huggers  we  are  upon  sea  or  upon  land! 
It  made  no  difference  that  I  knew  this  to  be  a  sham 
coast.  I  could  feel  its  friendly  influence  all  the 
same,  even  when  my  back  was  turned. 

In  summer,  fog  seems  to  lie  upon  the  Atlantic 
in  great  shallow  fleeces,  looking,  I  dare  say,  like 
spots  of  mould  or  mildew  from  an  elevation  of  a 
few  miles.  These  fog-banks  are  produced  by  the 
deep  cold  currents  rising  to  the  surface,  and  coming 
in  contact  with  the  Avarmer  air.  One  may  see  them 
far  in  advance,  looking  so  shallow  that  it  seems  as 


272  FRESH   FIELDS 

if  the  great  steamer  must  carry  her  head  above 
them.  But  she  does  not  quite  do  it.  When  she 
enters  this  obscurity,  there  begins  the  hoarse  bellow- 
ing of  her  great  whistle.  As  one  dozes  in  his  berth 
or  sits  in  the  cabin  reading,  there  comes  a  vague 
impression  that  we  are  entering  some  port  or  har- 
bor, the  sound  is  so  welcome,  and  is  so  suggestive 
of  the  proximity  of  other  vessels.  But  only  once 
did  our  loud  and  repeated  hallooing  awaken  any 
response.  Everybody  heard  the  answering  whistle 
out  of  the  thick  obscurity  ahead,  and  was  on  the 
alert.  Our  steamer  instantly  slowed  her  engines 
and  redoubled  her  tootings.  The  two  vessels  soon 
got  the  bearing  of  each  other,  and  the  stranger 
passed  us  on  the  starboard  side,  the  hoarse  voice  of 
her  whistle  alone  revealing  her  course  to  us. 

Late  one  afternoon,  as  we  neared  the  Banks,  the 
.word  spread  on  deck  that  the  knobs  and  pinnacles 
of  a  thunder- cloud  sunk  below  the  horizon,  and 
that  deeply  and  sharply  notched  the  w^estern  rim  of 
the  sea,  were  icebergs.  The  captain  was  quoted  as 
authority.  He  probably  encouraged  the  delusion. 
The  jaded  passengers  wanted  a  new  sensation. 
Everybody  was  willing,  even  anxious,  to  believe 
them  icebergs,  and  some  persons  would  have  them 
so,  and  listened  coldly  and  reluctantly  to  any  proof 
to  the  contrary.  What  we  want  to  believe,  what 
it  suits  our  convenience,  or  pleasure,  or  prejudice, 
to  believe,  one  need  not  go  to  sea  to  learn  what 
slender  logic  will  incline  us  to  believe.  To  a  firm, 
steady  gaze,  these  icebergs  were  seen  to  be  momently 


AT   SEA  273 

changing  their  forms,  new  chasms  opening,  new 
pinnacles  rising:  but  these  appearances  were  easily 
accounted  for  by  the  credulous;  the  ice  mountains 
were  rolling  over,  or  splitting  asunder.  One  of  the 
rarest  things  in  the  average  cultivated  man  or 
woman  is  the  capacity  to  receive  and  weigh  evidence 
touching  any  natural  phenomenon,  especially  at  sea. 
If  the  captain  had  deliberately  said  that  the  shift- 
ing forms  there  on  the  horizon  were  only  a  school 
of  whales  playing  at  leap-frog,  all  the  women  and 
half  the  men  among  the  passengers  would  have 
believed  him. 

In  going  to  England  in  early  May,  we  encoun- 
tered the  fine  weather,  the  warmth  and  the  sun- 
shine as  of  June,  that  had  been  "central"  over  the 
British  Islands  for  a  week  or  more,  five  or  six 
hundred  miles  from  shore.  We  had  come  up  from 
lower  latitudes,  and  it  was  as  if  we  had  ascended 
a  hill  and  found  summer  at  the  top,  while  a  cold, 
backward  spring  yet  lingered  in  the  valley.  But 
on  our  return  in  early  August,  the  positions  of 
spring  and  summer  were  reversed.  Scotland  was 
cold  and  rainy,  and  for  several  days  at  sea  you 
could  in  the  distance  hardly  tell  the  sea  from  the 
sky,  all  was  so  gray  and  misty.  In  mid- Atlantic 
we  ran  into  the  American  climate.  The  great  con- 
tinent, basking  there  in  the  western  sun,  and  glow- 
ing with  midsummer  heat,  made  itself  felt  to  the 
centre  of  this  briny  void.  The  sea  detached  itself 
sharply  from  the  sky,  and  became  like  a  shield  of 
burnished   steel,    which  the  sky  surrounded  like  a 


274  FRESH   FIELDS 

dome  of  glass.  For  four  successive  nights  the  sun 
sank  clear  in  the  wave,  sometimes  seeming  to  melt 
and  mingle  with  the  ocean.  One  night  a  bank  of 
mist  seemed  to  impede  his  setting.  He  lingered  a 
long  while  partly  buried  in  it,  then  slowly  disap- 
peared as  through  a  slit  in  the  vapor,  which  glowed 
red-hot,  a  mere  line  of  fire,  for  some  moments 
afterward. 

As  we  neared  home  the  heat  became  severe. 
We  were  going  down  the  hill  into  a  fiery  valley. 
Vast  stretches  of  the  sea  were  like  glass  bending 
above  the  long,  slow  heaving  of  the  primal  ocean. 
Swordfish  lay  basking  here  and  there  on  the  sur- 
face, too  lazy  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  ship :  — 

"  The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played." 

Occasionally  a  whale  would  blow,  or  show  his  glis- 
tening back,  attracting  a  crowd  to  the  railing.  One 
morning  a  whale  plunged  spitefully  through  the 
track  of  the  ship  but  a  few  hundred  yards  away. 

But  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  way  of  animated 
nature  was  the  shoals  of  dolphins  occasionally  seen 
during  these  brilliant  torrid  days,  leaping  and  sport- 
ing, and  apparently  racing  with  the  vessel.  They 
would  leap  in  pairs  from  the  glassy  surface  of  one 
swell  of  the  steamer  across  the  polished  chasm  into 
the  next  swell,  frisking  their  tails  and  doing  their 
best  not  to  be  beaten.  They  were  like  fawns  or 
young  kine  sporting  in  a  summer  meadow.  It  was 
the  only  touch  of  mirth,  or  youth  and  jollity,  I  saw 
in  the  grim  sea.      Savagery  and  desolation  make  up 


AT   SEA  275 

the  prevailing  expression  here.  The  sea-fowls  have 
weird  and  disconsolate  cries,  and  appear  doomed  to 
perpetual  solitude.  But  these  dolphins  know  what 
companionship  is,  and  are  in  their  own  demesne. 
When  one  sees  them  bursting  out  of  the  waves,  the 
impression  is  that  school  is  just  out;  there  come 
the  boys,  skipping  and  laughing,  and,  seeing  us 
just  passing,  cry  to  one  another:  "i^ow  for  a  race! 
Hurrah,  boys!     We  can  beat  'em!  " 

One  notices  any  change  in  the  course  of  the  ship 
by  the  stars  at  night.  For  nearly  a  week  Venus 
sank  nightly  into  the  sea  far  to  the  north  of  us. 
Our  course  coming  home  is  south-southwest.  Then, 
one  night,  as  you  promenade  the  deck,  you  see, 
wdth  a  keen  pleasure,  Venus  through  the  rigging 
dead  ahead.  The  good  ship  has  turned  the  corner ; 
she  has  scented  New  York  harbor,  and  is  making 
straight  for  it,  with  New  England  far  away  there 
on  her  right.  Now  sails  and  smoke-funnels  begin 
to  appear.  All  ocean  paths  converge  here:  full- 
rigged  ships,  piled  with  canvas,  are  passed,  rocking 
idly  upon  the  polished  surface;  sails  are  seen  just 
dropping  below  the  horizon,  phantom  ships  without 
hulls,  while  here  and  there  the  black  smoke  of  some 
steamer  tarnishes  the  sky.  Now  we  pass  steamers 
that  left  New  York  but  yesterday;  the  City  of 
Kome  —  looking,  wdth  her  three  smoke-stacks  and 
her  long  hull,  like  two  steamers  together  —  creeps 
along  the  southern  horizon,  just  ready  to  vanish 
behind  it.  Now  she  stands  in  the  rellected  liglit 
of  a  great  white  cloud  which  makes  a  bright  track 


276  FRESH   FIELDS 

upon  the  water  like  the  full  moon.  Then  she 
slides  on  into  the  dim  and  even  dimmer  distance, 
and  we  slide  on  over  the  tropic  sea,  and,  by  a  splen- 
did run,  just  catch  the  tide  at  the  moment  of  its 
full,  early  the  next  morning,  and  pass  the  bar  off 
Sandy  Hook  without  a  moment  of  time  or  an  inch 
of  water  to  spare. 


INDEX 


Aliowat,  8,  132-134,  160. 

Anemone.    See  Rue-anemone. 

Angler,  an  English,  83-85. 

Anglo-Saxon,  the,  45. 

Annan,  72. 

Annan  bridge,  68,  69. 

Ants,  178-181. 

Arbutus,  trailing,  164,  172,  173. 

Arethusa,  172. 

Argyll,  Duke  of,  on  the  comparative 

merits  of  British  and  American 

song-birds,  113-116,  119. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  quotations  from, 

78,  169 ;  212. 
Arthur's  Seat,  48,  49, 
Ash,  19. 
Asters,  196. 

Audubon,  John  James,  123,  124. 
Avon,  the  Scottish  river,  39. 
Ayr,  46. 
Azaleas,  173. 

Barrington,  Daines,  119,  128,  138. 

Bean,  horse  or  Winchester,  169. 

Bear,  black  (Ursus  americanus), 
186. 

Bee.  See  Bumblebee  and  Honey- 
bee. 

Beech,  European,  18,  19,  40,  41,  97. 

Beetle,  ants  and,  179,  180. 

Beetle,  Colorado,  194. 

Ben  Lomond,  24. 

Ben  Nevis,  25. 

Ben  Venue,  23,  24,  155. 

Birds,  blue  not  a  common  color 
among  British,  93 ;  voices  of  Brit- 
ish, 105, 142 ;  source  of  the  charm 
of  their  songs,  113;  the  Duke  of 
Argyll  on  the  comparative  merits 
of  British  and  American  song- 
birds, 113-116  ;  the  American  bird- 
choir  larger  and  embracing  more 
good  songsters  than  the  British, 
119-129 ;  British  more  familiar, 
prolific,  and  abundant  than  Amer- 
ican, 125,  126 ;  superior  vivacity 
and  strength  of  voice  in  British, 


126  ;  hours  and  seasons  of  singing 
of  British  and  American,  I'^tj,  127, 
143;  superior  sweetness,  tender- 
ness, and  melody  in  the  songs  of 
American,  128,  143-145;  the  two 
classes  of  British  song-birds,  142, 
143  ;  certain  localities  favored  by, 
144 ;  British  more  prolific  than 
American,  189,  190;  warm  and 
compact  nests  of  British,  190; 
abundance  of  British,  190-192. 

Blackberry,  18,  52,  168. 

Blackbird,  European,  song  of,  86, 
90,  105,  114,  129,  136,  139,  145; 
nest  of,  66. 

Blackbird,  red-winged.  See  Star- 
ling, red-shouldered. 

Blackcap,  or  black-capped  warbler, 
87,  92  ;  song  of,  105,  115,  123,  129, 
137,  140. 

Blood-root,  172. 

BluebeU.     See  Hyacinth,  wild. 

Bluebird  (Sialia  sialis),  notes  of, 
120,  123,  129. 

Blue-boimet,  189. 

Blue-weed,  or  viper's  buglosa,  168, 
171. 

Bobolink  {Bolichonyz  oryzivonis), 
song  of,  118,  120,  123,  125,  129. 

Bob-white.    See  Quail. 

Bouncing  Bet,  171. 

Boys,  at  Ecclefechan,  64-66  ;  a  God- 
aiming  boy,  92-95. 

Bridges,  arched,  C8,  69. 

Brig  o'  Doon,  26. 

Britain.    See  Great  Britain. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  as  a  poet  of 
the  woods,  43. 

Bugloss,  viper's.     See  Blue -weed. 

Building-stone,  softness  of  British, 
20. 

Bullfinch,  notes  of,  129. 

Bumblebee,  17-19,  195. 

Bunting,  indigo.     Srr  Indigo-bird. 

Burns,  Robert,  the  Scotch  love  of, 
48  ;  quotation  from,  135 ;  225. 

Buttercup,  16,  165,  196. 


278 


INDEX 


Calopogon,  172. 

Campion,  bladder,  171. 

Canterbury,  10,  11  ;  tlie  cathedral 
of,  11-13, 

Cardinal.     See  Grosbeak,  cardinal. 

Carlyle,  James,  father  of  Thomas 
Carlyle,  55,  59,  60,  69-71,  73. 

Carlyle,  Mrs.  James,  55,  61. 

Carlyle,  Jane  Baillie  Welsh,  221-223. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  quotations  from, 
25,  49,  50,  58,  60,  61,  71,  73,  75, 
204,  206-209,  211,  215-217,  219, 
223-226,  228-232,  234,  236-238, 
240,  241,  246-248,  251,  254-259, 
266  ;  49-51,  54,  55  ;  the  grave  of, 
56,  57  ;  at  the  graves  of  his  father 
and  mother,  57,  58 ;  his  reverence 
and  affection  for  his  kindred,  58  ; 
his  family  traits,  58,  59 ;  his  love 
of  Scotland,  59,  60 ;  his  affection 
for  his  mother,  61 ;  an  old  road- 
mender's  opinion  of,  67  ;  his  style, 
71,  75 ;  his  connection  with  Ir- 
ving, 72  ;  an  Indomitable  worker, 
73-75 ;  his  house  in  Chelsea,  199, 
200  ;  a  call  on,  200-202  ;  on  Scott, 
201,  202  ;  his  correspondence  with 
Emerson,  203,  204,  208-210;  his 
friendship  with  Emerson,  203, 
204 ;  compared  and  contrasted 
with  Emerson,  203-210,  212 ;  his 
magnanimous  wrathfulness,  203, 
204  ;  a  man  of  action,  207  ;  a  regal 
and  dominating  man,  211,  212  ;  as 
an  historical  writer,  213,  214  ;  his 
power  of  characterization,  214, 
215 ;  his  vocabulary  of  vitupera- 
tion, 216,  217  ;  not  a  philosopher, 
217, 218 ;  his  struggle  against  odds, 
218-220;  his  unselfishness,  220, 
221 ;  his  relations  with  his  wife, 
221-223 ;  his  passion  for  heroes, 
223-226,  232-234 ;  his  glorification 
of  the  individual  will,  226 ;  his 
earnestness,  227  ;  a  master  por- 
trait-painter, 228-232;  the  value 
he  set  on  painted  portraits,  232 ; 
his  hatred  of  democracy,  232-251 ; 
his  large  capital  of  faith,  251-253  ; 
his  reUgious  belief,  251-257  ;  his 
attitude  of  renunciation,  255,  256  ; 
his  search  for  the  truth,  256,  257  ; 
his  egoism,  258  ;  value  of  his  teach- 
ing, 258-266  ;  his  isolation  of  soul, 
262-264;  his  mission,  265;  his 
Oliver  Cromwell,  211,  212 ;  his 
Frederick  the  Gh-eat,  211-217,  242. 

Carlyle  family,  the,  56-61,  67,  70, 
71. 


Catbird  (Galeoscoptes  carolinensis), 

notes  of,  117,  120,  125,  129. 
Cathedrals,  Canterbury,  11-13  ;  im- 
ages in,  15;  soil  collected  on  the 

walls  of,  21 ;   Rochester,  21 ;   St. 

Paul's,  182, 
Catskill  Mountains,  contrasted  with 

the    mountains    of    Scotland,   7  ; 

scenery  in,  38  ,•  the  vaUeys  of,  149. 
Cattle,  of  the  Scotch  Highlands,  25. 
Cedar-bird,  or  cedar  waxwing  {AirV" 

pelis  cedrorum),  notes  of,  115. 
Celandine,  172. 
Celts,  the,  45. 
Chaffinch,  or  shilfa,  133,  134,  191 ; 

song  of,  79,  90,  95,  129,  133,  134; 

nest  of,  65,  190. 
Chat,   yellow-breasted    {Icteria  vi- 

rens),  117  ;  song  of,  117,  120,  125. 
Chewink,  or    towhee  {Pipilo    ery- 

throphthalmus),  notes  of,  118, 120, 

125,  129. 
Chickadee     {Parus     atricapillus), 

notes  of  129 
Chiffchaff'  notes  of,  95,  143. 
Chipmunk  {Tamias  striatus),  195. 
Chippie.     See  Sparrow,  social. 
Cicada,  or  harvest-fly,  194,  195. 
Cinquefoil,  17. 
Claytonia,    or   spring  beauty,   164, 

Clematis,  wild,  17. 

Clouds,  in  England,  107  ;  at  sea,  269- 

273. 
Clover  (Trifolium  incarnaium).  93, 

169. 
Clover,  red,  16,  52. 
Clover,  white,  16,  17,  165. 
Clover,  yellow,  16, 
Clyde,  the,  sailing  up,  2-7. 
Cockscomb,  160, 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  quotation 

from,  166,  167  ;  228. 
Coltsfoot,  170. 
Columbine,  38,  173. 
Commons,  in  England,  104. 
Convolvulus,  19. 
Copses,  in  England,  82. 
Cormorants,  189. 
Corn-crake,  notes  of,  132. 
Cow-bunting,    or    cowbird    {Molo- 

thrus  ater),  notes  of,  125. 
Crane's-bill,  53, 
Creeper,  European  brown,  189. 
Crow,  carrion,  193, 
Cuckoo  {Coccyzus  sp,),  notes    oL 

127. 
Cuckoo,  European,  65  ;  notes  of  ,'77, 

78,  95,  123,  138,  148. 


INDEX 


279 


Curlew,  European,  107 ;  notes  of, 
141. 

DafifodUs,  165,  172. 

Daisy,  English,  52,  159,  160,  196. 

Daisy,  ox-eye,  160,  165,  196. 

Dalibarda,  164. 

Dandelion,  16,  165. 

Danton,  Georges  Jacques,  229. 

Darwin,  Charles,  31,  32. 

Dead-nettle,  161. 

Democracy,    Carlyle's    opinion  of, 

232-251. 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  230. 
Desmoulius,  Camille,  229. 
Devil's  Punch-Bowl,  the,  88. 
Dicentra,  38,  164,  172. 
Dickens,  Charles,  231. 
Dock,  sorrel  {Ruviez  acetosa),  170. 
Docks,  171. 
Dog-fish,  188. 
Dolphins,  274,  275. 
Doon,  the,  46,  132,  134,  161,  162. 
Dover,  the  cliffs  of,  13,  14. 
Ducks,  wild,  186. 

Eagle,  187,  188. 

Earthworm,  as  a  cultivator  of  the 
soil,  31,  32. 

Easing,  94,  103. 

Ecclefechan,  39  ;  the  journey  from 
Edinburgh  to,  49-55;  in  the  vil- 
lage and  churchyard  of,  55-58,  61- 
64 ;  birds'-nestiug  boys  of,  64-66  ; 
walks  about,  67-72 ;  the  "dog- 
fight," 67. 

Edinburgh,  48,  49,  178. 

Edward,  Thomas,  187,  188. 

Elder,  English,  10, 

Elecampane,  171. 

Elm,  English,  19,  97. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  as  a  poet  of 
the  woods,  43,  44 ;  quotations 
from,  43,  44,  102,  176,  210,  213, 
214,  218,  221 ;  53  ;  his  friendship 
with  Carlyle,  203,  204  ;  compared 
and  contrasted  with  Carlyle,  203- 
210,  212 ;  his  correspondence 
with  Carlyle,  203,  204,  208-210 ; 
225. 

England,  tour  in,  9 ;  walks  in,  9-20  ; 
the  green  turf  of,  20-23,  29,  31, 
32 ;  building-stone  of,  26  ;  human- 
ization  of  nature  in,  27,  28;  re- 
pose of  the  landscape  in,  29-34 ; 
foliage  in,  29-31 ;  cultivated  fields 
of,  32,  33 ;  grazing  in,  33 ;  the 
climate  as  a  promoter  of  green- 
ness, 33,  34 ;  pastoral  beauty  of, 
35,  36 ;  lack  of  wild  and  aborigi- 


nal beauty  in,  36,  37  ;  no  rocks 
worth  mentioning  in,  37  ;  woods 
in,  38-43;  plowing  in,  53,  54; 
country  houses  and  village  liouses 
in,  02,  63  ;  haying  m,  80, 108, 109, 
153 ;  a  farm  and  a  farmer  in  the 
south  of,  77,  80,  81 ;  sunken  roads 
of,  94,  95 ;  inns  of,  96,  97,  KJO- 
103;  sturdiness  and  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  trees  in,  97  ;  commons 
in,  104 ;  weather  of,  106, 107  ;  tlie 
bird-songs  of,  compared  with 
those  of  New  York  and  New  Eng- 
land, 113-129;  impressions  of 
some  birds  of,  131-145;  stillness 
at  twilight  in,  194, 195.  See  Great 
Britain. 

English,  the,  contrasted  with  the 
Scotch,  45 ;  a  prolific  people,  170- 
178. 

Europe,  animals  and  plants  of, 
more  versatile  and  dominating 
than  those  of  America,  184-180. 

Farming  in  the  south  of  England, 
80,  81. 

Fells,  in  the  north  of  England,  158. 

Fern,  maiden-hair,  173. 

Fieldfare,  186. 

Finch,  purple  {Carpodacus  purpu- 
reus),  song  of,  118,  120,  123,  129. 

Finches,  songs  of,  122,  123. 

Fir,  Scotch,  39. 

Flicker.    See  High-hole. 

Flowers,  wild,  American  more  shy 
and  retiring  than  British,  163,  IW, 
196  ;  species  fewer  but  individuals 
more  abundant  in  Great  Britain 
than  in  America,  165 ;  effect  of 
latitude  on  the  size  and  color  of, 
168 ;  effect  of  proximity  to  the 
sea  on,  108,  169 ;  British  less  beau- 
tiful but  more  abundant  and  no- 
ticeable than  American,  172,  173  ; 
British  and  American  sweet-scent- 
ed, 173 ;  abmidance  of  British, 
196. 

Flycatcher,  British,  121,  189. 

Flycatcher,  great  crestod  (.Vvmr- 
clius  crinih/.s),  notes  of,  118,  121. 

Flycatcher,  little  green  or  green- 
crested  {Empidoiiax  vinscais), 
notes  of,  121. 

Fog,  at  sea,  271,  272. 

Foliage,  in  England  and  America, 
29-31.     See  Trees. 

Footpath,  an  English,  89,  90. 

Forget-me-not,  196. 

Fox,  European  red,  187,  188. 

Foxglove,  90,  133,  148,  165 ;  a  beau- 


280 


INDEX 


tiful  and  conspicuous  flower,  166  ; 

in  poetry,  16G,  167  ;  196. 
Frederick  the  Great,  242. 
Frogs,  194. 
Froude,  James  Anthony,  his  Thomas 

Carlyle,  258,  259. 
Furze,  or  whin,  169,  170. 

Gannets,  189. 

Garlic,  hedge,  172. 

Geranium,  wild,  168. 

Gillyflower,  162. 

Glasgow,  2,  8,  9,  46,  47,  72. 

Globe-flower,  162. 

Goat  Fell,  6, 

Godalming,  89,  91,  92,  101, 102. 

Goethe,  225,  227. 

Golden-rod,  18,  196. 

Goldfinch,  American  {Spimis  tristis), 

notes  of,  118,  120,  122,  123,  129. 
Goldfinch,  European,  140 ;  song  of, 

122,  129,  140. 
Goose,  solan,  189. 
Grasmere,  148-151. 
Grasshoppers.  194. 
Graves,  "extinct,"  70,  71. 
Great  Britain,  wild  flowers  of,  159- 

174,  196  ;   species  less  numerous 

than  in  America  but  individuals 

more  abundant,  164,  165 ;  weeds 

in,  170,  171  ;  prolific  life  of,  175- 

197.    See  England,  Scotland,  and 

Wales. 
Greeniinch,  or  green    linnet,   140 ; 

notes  of,  18,  86,  129,  140. 
Greenock,  Scotland,  3,  4. 
Grosbeak,  blue  (Guiraea  ccerulea), 

song  of,  123. 
Grosbeak,     cardinal,     or    cardinal 

{Cardinalis  cardinalis),  song  of, 

92,  123. 
Grosbeak,  rose-breasted  {Hahia  lu- 

doviciana),  notes  of,  118, 120,  123, 

129,  144,  145. 
Grote,  George,  231, 
Ground-chestnut.    See  Pig-nut. 
Grouse,  186. 
Grouse,  ruffed  {Bonasa  umbellus), 

39. 
Gudgeon,  94. 
Gulls,  European,  175,  186,  189. 

Haggard  falcon,  14. 

Hairbird.     See  Sparrow,  social. 

Hamilton,  Duke  of,  his  parks,  39, 

40,  193. 
Hanger,  the,  40,  41,  104. 
Harbledown  hill,  11,  12. 
Hare,  European,  23,  188,  194. 
HarebeU,  168. 


Harvest-fly.    See  Cicada. 
Hawk,  186. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  44. 
Haymaking    in    England,    80,   108, 

109,  153. 
Hazlemere,  89. 
Heather,  170. 
Hedgehog,  19. 
Hedge-sparrow,   65 ;  notes  of,  129 ; 

nest  of,  65. 
Hellebore,  green,  172. 
HelveUyn,  153-156. 
Hepatica,  172. 
Herb  Robert,  18,  163. 
Herring,  on  the  coast  of  Scotland, 

188, 189. 
High-hole,  or  flicker  {Colaptes  aii- 

ratus),  notes  of,  118,  120. 
Hitchin,  109,  110. 
Honey-bee,  185. 
Honeysuckle,  wild,  90. 
House-martin,  or   martlet,  or  wtn- 

dow-swallow,  142 ;  notes  of,  142 ; 

nest  of,  69,  142. 
Hummingbird,  ruby-throated  (Tro- 

chilus  colubris),  notes  of,  115. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  230. 
Hyacinth,  wild,   or   bluebell,    163, 

172,  196. 
Hyla,  194. 

Indigo-bird,  or  indigo  bunting  {Pas- 
serina  cyanea),  song  of,  120,  123, 
l27  129. 

Inns, 'English,  96,  97,  100-103. 

Insects,  music  of,  194,  195. 

Ireland,  the  peat  of,  1. 

Irving,  Edward,  72,  227. 

Jackdaw,  12,  186 ;  notes  of,  142. 
Jay,  British,  93,  98  ;  notes  of,  142. 
Jewel-weed,  173. 
Johnson,  Samuel,  225. 
Juuco,    slate-colored.     See    Snow- 
bird. 

Katydids,  194. 

Keats,  John,  quotations  from,  111, 

166. 
Kent,  walks  in,  9-14. 
Kingbird      {Tyrannus      tyrannus), 

notes  of,  118,  121,  127. 
Kinglet,   European  golden-crested, 

or  golden-ci'ested  wren,  121,  189; 

song  of,  140. 
Kinglet,  golden-crowned,  or  golden- 
crowned  wren  {Regulus  satrapa), 

song  of,  121. 
Kinglet,  ruby-crowned  (Regulus  ca- 

lendula),  122 ;  song  of,  121,  122. 


INDEX 


281 


Lady's-slipper,  172. 

Lake  district,  the,  148-158. 

Lake  Mohuuk,  37. 

Lamb,  Charles,  228. 

Lapsviugr,  or  pewit,  141 ;  cry  of,  107. 

Lark.    See  Skylark  and  Wood-lark. 

Lark,  grasshopper,  notes  of,  127. 

Leechmere  bottom,  103-105. 

Lichens,  in  America  and  in  Eng- 
land, 36,  37. 

Linnet,  English,  song  of,  122,  123, 
129. 

Linnet,  green.     See  Greenfinch. 

Liphook, 106, 107. 

Live-for-ever,  171. 

Lockerbie,  52. 

London,  streets  above  streets  in, 
178  ;  overflowing  life  of,  181, 182  ; 
a  domestic  city,  182,  183. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth,  44. 

Loosestrife,  purple,  168. 

Maidstone,  10. 

Mainhill,  54,  55. 

Maple,  European,  30,  31,  173. 

Marigold,  corn,  173. 

Martin,  purple  {Progne  subis),  125  ; 

notes  of,  129. 
Martlet.     See  House-martin. 
Mavis.    See  Thrush,  song. 
Meadowlark     {Sturnella     magna), 

notes  of,  118,  120,  129. 
Meadow-sweet,  17,  169. 
Medeola,  164. 
Midges,  98. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  229,  230. 
Milton,  John,  quotations  from,  42. 
Mirabeau,  Comte  de,  228,  229. 
Mockingbird    {Mimus  polyglottos), 

song  of,  127-129. 
Moschatel,  172. 
Mountains,  of  Scotland,  6,  7,  21-25  ; 

of  the  Lake  district,  153-158. 
Mouse,  European  field,  186. 
Mullein,  171. 
Mustard,  wild,  171. 

Nettle,  18,  20,  160,  161. 

Nettle,  Canada,  161. 

Newt,  red,  39. 

Nightingale,  a  glimpse  of,  99 ;  at 
the  head  of  a  series  of  British 
song-birds,  142,  143  ;  notes  of,  77- 
79,  87,  89,  92,  96,  99, 102, 110,  111, 
114,  116,  123,  124,  128,  129,  140, 
145. 

Nightjar,  notes  of,  84. 

Nuthatch,  European,  140,  189. 

Oak,  English,  19,  97. 


Ocean,  the,  voyage  across,  267-269 ; 
clouds,  269-273;  fog,  271,  27_' ; 
the  weather,  273,  274;  aniniiil 
life,  274,  275 ;  the  end  of  the  voy- 
age, 275,  276. 

Orchids,  purple,  168. 

Oriole,  Baltimore  {Ictrrus  galhula), 
notes  of,  118,  120,  12;'),  129. 

Oriole,  orchard,  or  orchard  starling 
(Icterus  spurius),  song  of,  120, 
125. 

Otter,  187. 

Ousel,  ringed,  24. 

Ousel,  water,  149,  150. 

Oven-bird.    See  Wagtail,  wood. 

Owl,  188. 

Pansy,  wild,  65. 

Partridge,  European,  186;  nest  of, 

186. 
Peat,  1. 
Pewee,    wood    {Contopus  virens), 

notes  of,  39,  121. 
Pewit.     See  Lapwing. 
Phojbe-bird  {Sayoniis  phoebe),  notes 

of,  121. 
Pig-nut,   or    ground-chestnut,   162, 

163. 
Pine,  white,  173. 
Pipit,  American,  or  titlark  {Anthus 

pensilvanicus),  song  of,  129. 
Pipit,  meadow,  nest  and  eggs  of,  162, 

189. 
Pipit,  mountain,  24. 
Plane-tree,  European,  30. 
Plantain,  19. 

Plantain,  narrow-leaved,  16,  17. 
Plato,  225,  226. 
Plowing,  in  England  and  Scotland, 

53,54. 
Polecat,  187. 
Polecat  Hill,  88. 
Pond-lily,  European  white,  173. 
Poppy,  52,  165,  173,  196. 
Pr'mrose,  172,  196. 
Privet,  19. 
Prunella,  16,  17,  53,  168. 

Quail,  or  bob-white  (Colinus  rirgin- 
ianus),  190. 

Rabbit,  European,  187,  193,  194. 
Railway-trains,  the  view  from,  51. 
Rats,  187. 

Redbreast.     See  Robin  redbreast. 
Redstart,  American  (Selophaga  ru- 

ticilln),  song  of,  129. 
Redstart,  Europt';ui,  notes  of,  129. 
Reed-sparrow,  song  of,  129. 
Repentance  Hill,  67,  08. 


282 


INDEX 


Road-mender,  an  old,  67. 

Robin,  American  {Merula  migrato- 

ria),  song  of,  114,  120,  129,  136. 
Robin  redbreast,  189  ;  song  of,  90, 

98,  105,  123,  127,   129,   139,   145 ; 

nest  of,  65. 
Rochester  Castle,  21,  191. 
Rochester  Cathedral,  21. 
Rogers,  Samuel,  231. 
Rook,  191,  192 ;  notes  of,  142 ;  nest 

of,  192. 
Rook-pie,  191,  192. 
Rose,  wild,  17. 
Rothay,  the  river,  149,  150. 
Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  229. 
Rue-anemone,  172. 
Itumez  acetosa,  170. 
Rydal  Mount,  41. 

St.  John's-wort,  19. 

St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  182. 

Salisbury  Crags,  48,  49. 

Salmon,  188. 

Sandpiper,  European,  notes  of,  40, 
115,  141. 

Sandpiper,  spotted  {Actitis  macula- 
ria),  notes  of,  115,  120. 

Scotch,  the,  contrasted  with  the 
English,  45  ;  acquaintances  among 
46,  47 ;  a  trait  of,  47,  48 ;  their 
love  for  Burns,  48. 

Scotland,  first  sight  of,  2-7  ;  moun- 
tains of,  6, 7,21-25  ;  tour through, 
8  ;  moorlands  of,  25  ;  streams  and 
lakes  of,  25,  26 ;  plowing  in,  53, 
54 ;  work  of  women  and  girls  in 
the  fields  in,  54 ;  country  houses 
and  village  houses  in,  62,  63 ;  free 
use  of  paint  in,  69,  70.  See  Great 
Bi'itain. 

Scotsbrig,  62. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  Carlyle  on,  201, 
202,  225. 

Sea.    See  Ocean. 

Sedge-warbler,  song  of,  85. 

Selborne,  40,  103-105,  108,  109. 

Shackerford,  94-102. 

Shakespeare,  quotations  from,  42, 
69,  78,  147, 161-164,  184  ;  147,  210, 
212. 

Shakespeare's  Chflf,  14. 

Shawangunk  Mountains,  37. 

Shilfa.    See  Chaffinch. 

Ship-buUding  on  the  Clyde,  4-6. 

Shottery,  the  fields  about,  16,  17. 

Skylark,  80 ;  in  America,  116 ;  at 
the  head  of  a  series  of  British 
song-birds,  142,  143 ;  song  of,  4, 
11,  18,  86,  114,  116,  118,  119,  126, 
129,  132. 


Snails,  ants  and    snail,    180,    181 ; 
abundance  of,   in  England,   195, 
196. 
Snowbird,    or    slate-colored    junco 

{Junco  hyemalis),  song  of,  125. 
Solomon's-seal,  18. 
Sorrel,  sheep,  170.    See  Dock. 
Southey,  Robert,  231. 
Sparrow,  bush  07-  wood  or  field  {Spi- 
zella  pusilla),  song  of,  118,   120, 
121,  127,  129,  143. 
Sparrow,  English  {Passer  domesti- 

cus),  185 ;  Carlyle  on,  201. 
Sparrow,    fox    {Passerella   iliaca), 

song  of,  121,  129. 
Sparrow,    savanna    {Ammodramus 
sandicichensis  savanna),  notes  of, 
118,  129. 
Sparrow,  social  or  chipping,  or  hair- 
bird,  or  chippie  (Spizella  socialis), 
song  of,  120,  127. 
Sparrow,  song  {Melospiza  fasciata), 

notes  of,  118,  120,  129,  143. 
Sparrow,   swamp   {Melospiza  geor- 

giana),  song  of,  120. 
Sparrow,  vesper  {Po'dccetes  grami- 

neus),  song  of,  120,  129. 
Sparrow,   white-crowned   {Zonotri- 

chia  leucophrys),  song  of,  121. 
Sparrow,   white-throated  {Zonotrir 

chia  albicoUis),  song  of,  121. 
Sparrows,  songs  of,  120,  121. 
SpeedweU,  blue,  160,  167,  196. 
Spring  beauty.    See  Claytonia. 
Spurge,  wood,  172. 
Squirrel,  European,  195. 
Squirrel,    flying    {Sciuropterus   VO' 

lans),  186,  195. 
Squirrel,  gray  {Sciurus  carolinensis 

var.  leucotis),  39,  195. 
Squirrel,  red  {Sciurus  hudsonicus), 

195. 
Starling,    European,   191 ;  nest  of, 

191. 
Starling,   orchard.     See  Oriole,  or- 
chard. 
Starling,    red-shouldered,    or    red- 
winged  blackbird  {Agelaius  phcs- 
niceus),  notes  of,  118,  120. 
Stone.    See  Building-stone. 
Stork,  nest  of,  187. 
Stratford-on-Avon,  15,   17,   19,  26, 

169. 
Strawberry,  wild,  164. 
Succory,  168. 
Swallow,   bam  {Chelidon    erythro- 

gaster),  2. 
Swallow,  chimney,  or  cliimney  swift 
{Chcetura  pelagica),    190;    notes 
of,  125,  142 ;  nest  of,  186. 


INDEX 


283 


Swallow,  cliff  {Petrochelidon  luni- 
frons),  nests  of,  178,  18G. 

Swallow,  European  chimney,  2, 142  ; 
notes  of,  2 ;  nest  of,  2,  142. 

Swallow,  window.  See  House-mar- 
tin. 

Swift,  chimney.  See  Swallow,  chim- 
ney. 

Swift,  European,  notes  of,  142  ;  nest 
of.  •_>,  191. 

Sword-fish,  274. 

Tanager,  scarlet  {Pirnnga  erythro- 

melas),  song  of,  118,  120, 123,  127, 

129. 
Tarns,  153-155. 
Teasel,  19. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  quotations  from, 

30,  160,  163,  166,  167  ;  43,  81, 103  ; 

Carlyle's  portrait  of,  230,  231. 
Thames,  up  the,  15. 
Thistle,  Scotch,  20,  171. 
Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  44. 
Thrasher,   brown    {Harpoi-hijnchus 

rufus),  notes    of,   117,   120,   125, 

129;  nest  of,  117. 
Throstle.     See  Thrush,  .song. 
Thrush,  hermit  {Tiirdus  aonalasch- 

kce  paUasii),  120 ;   song  of,  123, 

128,  129. 

Thrush,  missel,  song  of,  1 14,  129. 
Thrush,  song,  oi'  mavis,  or  tlu'ostle, 

song  of,  98,  105,  114, 129,  134-136. 

139,  145. 
Thrush,  Wilson's.    See  Veery. 
Thrush,  olive-backed  or  Swainson's 

{Turdus     vsttdatufs    sicainsonii), 

song  of,  145. 
Thrush,  wood  {Tiirdus  mtixtelinns), 

notes  of,   80,  118,  120,  123,  127, 

129,  144,  145 ;  nest  of,  79,  80. 
Timothy  grass,  169. 

Tit,  great.     See  Titmouse,  great. 

Tit,  marsh,  189. 

Titlark.     See  Pipit,  American. 

Titlark,  European,  notes  of,  129. 

Titmouse,  great,  or  great  tit,  189, 
notes  of,  129. 

Titmouse,  long-tailed,  189. 

Toad,  194. 

Tomtit,  nest  of,  65. 

Towhee.     See  Chewink. 

Tree-cricket,  194. 

Trees,  sturdiness  and  picturesque- 
ness  of  English,  97.  See  Foli- 
age. 

Trillium,  painted,  172. 

Trilliums,  164. 

Trosacln,  tlie,  178. 

Trout,  British,  84. 


Turf,  of  England  and  Scotland,  20- 
26,  29,  31,  32. 

I  Ulleswater,  153-155. 
I  Uvularia,  164. 

Valleys,  149. 

Veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush  ( Tardus 

fuscesce7is),    120;    song    of,    128, 

144,  145. 
Vervain,  168. 
Vetches,  196. 
Violet,  bird's-foot,  173. 
Violet,  yellow,  164. 
Vireo,  brotlierly  love  or  Philadelphia 

{Vb-eo  philadelphicus),   song  of, 

129. 
Vireo,  red-eyed    ( Vireo   olivnceus), 

song   of,    118,  120,   122,  127,  129, 

143. 
Vireo,  solitary  or  blue-headed  (  Vireo 

solitarius),  120,  122  ;  song  of,  129. 
Vireo,  warbling  ( Vireo  gilvus),  sone 

of,  122,  143.  * 

Vireo,  white-eyed  ( Vireo  jwveborn- 

censis),   122;    song  of,    120,    122, 

129. 
Vireo,  yellow-throated  {Vireo  flavi- 

frons),  notes  of,  129. 

Vireos,  songs  of,  122,  128. 

i  Virgil,  quotation  from,  79. 

Wagtail,  water.    See  Water-thrush, 
'      large-billed. 

Wagtail,  wood,  or  golden-crowned 
thrush,  or  golden-crowned  accen- 
tor, or  oven-bird  (Seiiirits  aura- 
capillus),  song  of,  124,  125,  127- 
129. 

Wales,  rock  scenery  in,  37. 

Warbler,  black-capped.  See  Black- 
cap. 

Warl)ler,       black-throated       green 
'      (Deiidroira  rinns),  .song  of,  129. 

Warbler,   Canada    (Si/lvatiia   caua- 
i      detisis),  song  of.  129. 
!  Warbler,  garden,  141 ;  song  of,  105, 
'       115,  123, 

Warl)ler,  hooded  {Si/lrmiia  mil  ra- 
ta), song  of,  129. 

Warbler,  Kentucky  (Geotldijjti.t  for- 
mo.ia),  song  of,  123. 

Warbler,  mourning  {Geot/ili/pit 
Philadelphia),  song  of.  129. 

Warbler,  reed,  noti's  of,  lit.. 

Warbler,  willow,  or  willow-wren, 
song  of,  129,  136,  137  ;  nest  and 
eggs  of,  66,  137,  189,  190. 

Warbler,  yellow.  See  Yellowbird, 
summer. 


284 


INDEX 


Water-lily.    See  Pond-lily. 

Water-plantain,  168. 

Water-thrush,  large-billed  or  Loui- 
siana, or  water  wagtail  {Seiurus 
motacilla),  124  ;  song  of,  123-125, 
129. 

Waxwing,  cedar.    See  Cedar-bird. 

Weasel,  19,  187, 

Webster,  Daniel,  231. 

Weeds,  in  Great  Britain  and  in 
America,  170,  171. 

Westmoreland,  148-158. 

Whale,  274. 

Wheat-ear,  24,  156. 

Whin.     iSw  Furze. 

White,  Gilbert,  78,  85,  89,  119-122, 
127,  137. 

Whitethroat,  song  of,  86,  95,  105, 
115,  123,  129,  137. 

Wolf,  185,  186. 

Wolmer  Forest,  40,  107. 

Woodbine,  38. 

Woodcock,  European,  186. 

Wood-frog,  39. 

Wood-lark,  87,  92,  140;  song  of, 
125,  127,  129. 

Wood-pigeon,  notes  of,  86,  98. 

Woodruff,  163. 

Woods,  of  America,  38  ;  of  England, 
38-43 ;  in  poetry,  42-44. 

Wordsworth,  William,  43 ;  quota- 
tions from,  110,  119,  151,  152, 157, 
160,  165,  167  ;  the  poet  of  those 
who  love  solitude,  147  ;  his  house 


at  Grasmere,  151 ;  his  attitude 
toward  nature,  151,  152;  his 
lonely  heart,  157. 

Wren,  British  liouse,  or  Jenny 
Wren,  66  ;  notes  of,  18,  40,  86, 
116,  121,  127,  129,  138;  nest  of, 
86,  189,  190. 

Wren,  European  golden-crested. 
See  Kinglet,  European  golden- 
crested. 

Wren,  golden-crowTied.  See  King- 
let, golden-crowned. 

Wren,  house  {Troglodytes  aedon), 
song  of,  120,  121,  129. 

Wren,  long-billed  marsh  {Cisto- 
thorus  paliistris),  song  of,  120, 
121. 

Wren,  willow.  See  Warbler,  wil- 
low. 

Wren,  winter  {Troglodytes  hiema- 
Us)  121  ;  song  of,  121,  128,  129, 
144,  145. 

Wrens,  songs  of,  121. 

Wryneck,  189. 

Yarrow,  17,  52. 

Yellowbird,  summer,  or  yellow  war- 
bler {Dendroica  (estiva),  song  of, 
120,  129. 

Yellowhammer,  or  yellow  yite, 
notes  of,  16,  18,  12i ,  129,  140, 143 ; 
nest  of,  65. 

Yellow-throat,  Marjland  {Geothhj- 
pis  trichas),  song  of,  118, 120, 129. 


North  Carouna  state  Unwersiw  Libraries 

QH81  .B933 
FRESH  FIELDS 


S02775194  K 


